


Sleepwalk

by ZenTango



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alice in Wonderland References, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, I drink a lot of tea, I've been stuck in my apartment by myself for weeks, Lesbian Sex, Light Bondage, Other cultural references you can figure out for yourself, Post-Finale, Root | Samantha Groves Lives, Self-conscious allusions to the writing process, Sexual Content, Shaw is missing the simulations, Shaw is still a badass, Shaw misses Root too, Story within a Story, Villains who try to hurt Root get their asses kicked, yummy food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:53:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenTango/pseuds/ZenTango
Summary: When all your friends are gone, when you've killed the last of those responsible, when it's just you and your dog and your Machine left to pick up the pieces, what do you become then? When the last time you saw her, that one person who connects you to the world, she had a gun in her hand and a worried look on her beautiful face and you didn't even say goodbye. So what then? This is what. You find a way to deal. Even if it's a lie, a fantasy. Even if you have to pay someone to spin a tale that you can swallow like a big gulp of whiskey so you can sleep at night. So you can remember.
Relationships: Root | Samantha Groves & Sameen Shaw, Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 49
Kudos: 114





	1. Pepper's Ghost

The snowflake drifted slowly down from the grey, mid-morning Manhattan sky and landed on the checkered surface of the table, settling somewhere on the border between a black square and a white square. The young man stared at it briefly, wondering if it would stay there or drift away on the cool breeze, or if it would simply melt on the surface of the table where he sat facing his opponent, one of several similar men in drab jackets and wool hats who sat huddled around similar tables, rubbing their hands, rubbing their faces, drawing their mouths into tight lines as they stared at the chess pieces before them.

The young man brought his own hands to his mouth and tried to warm his cold fingers with his breath, then shoved them back into the pockets of his worn coat. Another fat snowflake had fallen onto the board, where it landed on top of his queen and rested there, like a beautiful white jewel on her crown. He reached out to flick it away, then stopped himself, frozen by the glare of the man sitting opposite.

“Hands off the fucking board, man,” the older man growled through the cigarette that was clamped between his teeth. “Ain't your move.”

The younger man stuffed the offending hand back into his pocket and began fishing around for a cigarette of his own. Had he smoked the last one? His fingers were finding nothing but scratchy wool and the torn remnants of a Kleenex. He coughed once, twice, pulled out the Kleenex and managed to get the third cough into the wadded tissue in his hand. The grizzled visage facing him across the table registered annoyance. The young man responded with a weak smile and a shrug.

“Sorry,” he said. “Fighting a cold.”

His opponent grunted, moved his bishop and took the pawn that had been in its path, adding it to the growing collection of pieces he'd removed from the board.

“Shit,” whispered the younger man, hunching his shoulders, hearing a murmur pass through the small crowd of people who were standing around watching the men play. There were matches going on at several other tables in the small park, but this one seemed to be drawing the most attention at the moment. The watchers moved closer, silently, like sharks smelling blood in the water. It wouldn't be long now, they seemed to be saying, nodding at each other, smiling.

He took a small breath and surveyed the board. There were only two moves he could see: the rook or the pawn. He moved the rook. He heard someone make a disapproving cluck. Fuck you, he thought.

More snow was falling now, and he looked up briefly and glanced past the little crowd of people, toward the trees at the far side of the park. Someone was standing there at the perimeter, alone, watching. Someone dark and familiar, staring with that unblinking, unnerving stillness. He froze in terror. No, it couldn't be her. She was dead. He was sure of it.

He felt his heart suddenly pounding and he coughed again, this time out of nervousness. His hand was on the Kleenex again and he covered his mouth with his fist, closed his eyes. God, no. He must be going mad, seeing ghosts, phantoms.

He opened his eyes and looked at the trees again. The dark figure was gone. Had it even been there to begin with? He swallowed hard and looked at the board. His opponent smiled and moved his queen across the board.

“Checkmate,” he said, as the crowd murmured again, then broke apart, looking for fresh game.

The older man's thick hand was already grabbing the two twenty-dollar bills that had been lying on the table, weighted down with a small rock. He folded them up and stuck them in the inside pocket of his jacket, then used the same meaty hand to wave his vanquished foe from the table as his next opponent made ready to take the seat, impatiently sliding into place as the younger man arose.

The defeated one pulled up his collar and looked back at the two men, hunkered down over their pieces, his failed campaign already forgotten. He cursed himself for losing. That twenty could have bought him some lunch, or some cigarettes. Now, it was gone, along with whatever dignity he'd managed to summon before sitting down at the board.

He began heading back home, a walk of several blocks that seemed longer with every blast of chilly, wintry air that swept through him. Maybe there was some coffee left in the cupboard. At least he'd be able to have a hot drink. The thought would have cheered him on most days, at least a little. But his mind kept returning to the image of the dark figure standing near the trees, silently watching him like some macabre sentinel. Was it his imagination that had conjured her up? Maybe it was his guilt.

Whatever it was, it sure as hell had looked like her. The same silent intensity and military bearing. The same black, tailored wool jacket. Her hands in the pockets, her dark eyes burning. Burning a fucking hole into his head. Was he actually losing his mind? Seeing dead people?

It wasn't the first time he'd glimpsed such an apparition. It sometimes happened when he was walking on a crowded sidewalk, headed somewhere or other. He'd catch a flicker of someone, and he'd believe, just for a second, that it was indeed the person he thought it was. But then he'd tell himself that his eyes were deceiving him. The dead don't walk.

His mind would begin searching for words to explain the phenomenon. A wraith, an omen, a portent? A siren trying to lure him to his own death on the rocky shores of his miserable existence? Or maybe it was just a trick of the light, a reflection similar to one that could make a ghost appear on stage.

He knew what Michel would say about it, sitting at the tiny card table in what passed for a kitchen in that grungy Montreal apartment. He could even see Michel's face, the left eyebrow raised, the lopsided grin, cigarette tapping on the ashtray as he leaned back in his chair.

“That's when you know you are getting old,” he'd say in his patient, measured English. “You cannot remember who is alive and who is dead. One day you will look around and you will be the only one left. Everyone else ... gone.”

Ash would fall from the cigarette as Michel gesticulated with his hand, and then he'd pause, then raise the burning stub it to his lips again.

“You'll see,” he would say after a while. “You can't appreciate these things when you are young. But one day, you'll see.”

“I have seen death,” the younger man would protest. “It doesn't frighten me. C'est la vie.”

“C'est ca,” Michel would reply with a shrug.

The memory faded and the young man hunched his shoulders in an attempt to keep his pulled-up collar close to his freezing ears. He'd had a warm scarf but lost it on the subway a week or two ago. It was old and a little ratty but at this moment, he'd give anything to have it back. There were quite a few things he'd like to have back.

Finding his block, he walked about halfway up the street of old brownstones, then made his way to the tiny, enclosed staircase that led down to his small basement apartment. Of course it led down, he thought to himself with a wry grin. Everything led down these days. He coughed again, shoving his key into the lock and pushing the battered steel door open. Not exactly the Taj Mahal.

It was dark inside, but he knew it would be that way, as he hadn't paid the electric bill. At least there was still some heat in the place. The gas came from a different utility and they hadn't cut him off. Yet. He shuddered and rubbed his hands together in an effort to get his blood circulating again, then moved over to the small gas stove where his kettle awaited. Opening the cupboard, he was glad to see a small amount of coffee left there, maybe enough for a whole mug. He began filling the kettle from the tap, then suddenly stopped.

There was someone else there, standing just inside the door. He must have walked right past the person on his way in. But it was dark and his eyes were still adjusting. He tried not to gasp in alarm when his visitor spoke.

“Hello, Spinner,” a woman's voice greeted him.

He stood there frozen, his hand still on the kettle, the water running. After a few seconds, he reached over and turned it off. He could see her better now. But he already recognized the voice. Shaw. A chill ran through him.

“I thought ...” his voice trailed off. Then he started again. “I thought you were dead.”

“Join the club,” she replied dryly, moving toward him.

He took a step back but there was nowhere to go and her hands were already on him, grabbing the front of his jacket and shoving him into the nearest chair.

“Sit the fuck down,” she hissed, sounding irritated. “I'm not here to kill you.”

She walked over to the window and pulled open the blinds, allowing some light into the tiny room. Spinner closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled, realizing he'd been holding his breath. His muscles relaxed slightly as he shifted into a more comfortable position in the chair, feeling the padded backrest touch his spine. Despite her words, he was still worried about what might happen next. He'd seen this woman kill without hesitation. He didn't want to test her.

“Then why are you here?” he managed to gasp as she stood leaning against the counter, her arms crossed in front of her.

“I need your help,” she replied, those eyes burning into his again, watching for his reaction. He swallowed nervously, then choked back another cough, muttering curses to himself.

“What could I possibly help you with?” he asked, his hands patting his pockets for a cigarette, finding none. Force of habit.

“You're awfully twitchy,” Shaw said, frowning at him. “What's wrong? Down on your luck?”

“There isn't a lot of work out there for freelance writers these days,” he said, pausing to cough again. “Times are tough.”

“I guess that old pock-marked bastard forgot to leave you a severance package before his whole empire went up in flames,” Shaw said. “That kind of sucks.”

“Tell me about it,” Spinner replied, before erupting into a series of hacking coughs.

Shaw went to the sink and filled a glass of water, then set it on the table in front of him. He took a few long sips as she watched him, waiting patiently for him to speak again.

“Look, it was just a job,” he told her. “I'd never even heard of Greer, or Samaritan for that matter, before he sent his errand boys to fetch me. I'd been freelancing for a bunch of online publications and writing pieces for a sci-fi website.”

He shook his head and took another drink of water.

“Sci-fi, that's a good one,” he said, with a bitter laugh. “Speculative fiction, they call it. But no one could ever have imagined what was really taking place in reality. Holy shit.”

He looked at her directly. She was staring intently at him, the way she did. The way he remembered her, listening, unspeaking. She probably harbored some hard feelings after what he'd done, but it was difficult to know exactly what she was thinking. Did she hate him? Did she want revenge? Did he really want to know? He decided he did.

“You must really hate me,” he ventured.

She blinked once. No answer. Damn. He sighed and tried again.

“I'm sorry for my part in ... what you went through,” he said. “I didn't know--”

“Yes you did.”

  
“Not at first,” he said. “They just wanted me to write stories for Samaritan to use as a template for its simulations. They needed my imagination.”

“Because Samaritan didn't have one,” Shaw said.

“Exactly,” answered Spinner. “As much as they can do with artificial intelligence, they still can't manufacture creativity. It's a human trait the synthetic brain can't replicate, can't learn. Yet.”

He smiled to himself, finding it rather cool to know he possessed something -- a skill, a talent -- that that monstrous machine did not.

“So Greer needed a spinner of tales,” said Shaw. “And you were happy to oblige, for a paycheck.”

“A pretty generous one,” Spinner answered quickly. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to earn a living as a writer in New York? Of course I jumped at the chance. Great pay, great working conditions, travel by private jet ...”

“I'm glad you found it so luxurious,” Shaw snapped. “Being strapped down and fed to that machine was a little less enjoyable for me.”

She moved closer to him in a threatening way. Spinner could see the anger in her eyes, although she probably could have been much angrier. He knew what had happened to her in that lab, because he'd been there, seen the injections, the electrodes, the restraints. He'd seen other people being experimented on as well. They usually screamed and cried. But not Shaw. She rarely made a sound, which had always amazed him. He'd seen some of the simulations Samaritan created, devastating and realistic and terrifying all at once. They had put her through hell.

Of course he felt guilty about it all. When he first started with Samaritan, Greer had taken him around the facility and showed him all the work that was being done. He had an almost grandfatherly way about him that set the young man at ease. He'd explained that what Samaritan was doing would make life so much better for everyone, for the entire human race. And Spinner could be part of it.

It was later, when he saw what was happening to Shaw, that he'd started questioning Greer's doctrine. It couldn't be right to treat someone that way, to manipulate her reason, her memories, her emotions. By then, it was too late to suddenly have an attack of conscience. He'd seen what happened to people who resisted. No, Samaritan had him. He'd sold his soul to the devil.

“I said I was sorry,” he told Shaw now. “You have no idea how much I regret what I did. But you know what they say, what's done is done. What can I ever do to make it right?”

Shaw stared at him again as he began another coughing fit. This time, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a white cotton handkerchief, which she handed to him, making a face of disgust as he spit a wad of dark, greenish phlegm into it.

She took a step forward then, extending her hand, and for a brief moment he feared she'd grab him mid-cough and snap his neck. But instead, he felt her cool palm on his forehead, almost tenderly brushing his hair away, or was that just his imagination again? A memory of childhood flashed through his mind and he thought he could hear his mother's voice saying his name, his real name, as he lay feverish and miserable in bed.

Shaw frowned slightly and looked into his eyes. Then she stood up, back to her rigid military stance.

“There is a way you can try to make it right,” she told him. “But you have to agree.”

“Agree to what?” he asked.

“To work for me,” she said. “Write stories The Machine can use for its own simulations.”

The tiniest of smiles appeared on Shaw's face as she added: “I do admire your work, Spinner.”

“That's nice but I can't work for nothing,” he tersely replied, coughing. “I need money.”

“I get that,” she said. “What else.”

He began to straighten up and regain some composure. Might as well drive a bargain while he could.

“Well,” he said, pausing for effect as Shaw's eyes began to register impatience. “I'll need some coffee for starters. And some cigarettes.”

“I'll be right back,” she said, disappearing out the door. She returned a half-hour later with the requested supplies, plus a large sandwich wrapped in paper, which Spinner wasted no time unwrapping.

“Thanks,” he said, between mouthfuls. “What's that?”

He motioned toward the small white pharmacy bag that Shaw had deposited on the table.

“Antibiotics,” she said. “You have a lung infection. Follow the instructions.”

He watched, still chewing, as she turned to head back out.

“I'll be in touch,” she said, opening the door to leave.

“Hey,” he called after her. “Who are you anyway, Doctor Strange?”

“No,” she said. “Doctor Shaw.”

Once out on the street, Shaw pulled her earpiece from her pocket and placed it in her ear. The Machine was waiting for her.

“So, is he in?” came the lilting, familiar voice.

“Looks that way,” Shaw gritted her teeth. It still seemed weird to hear Root's voice coming from The Machine, but she also found it oddly comforting.

“Is something wrong? You sound hesitant,” noted The Machine.

“He's a little green around the gills,” Shaw replied.

“Green? Around the gills?”  
  


“Sick.”

“Oh, right. I should get a glossary of your more colorful expressions, Shaw.”

“Bite me.”

“That one I know.”

“I'm heading home now,” Shaw said, allowing herself a tiny smile at the teasing familiarity of their exchange. It was almost like talking to Root. Except that Root was gone and Shaw was alone. She shivered and pulled on her black wool watchman's cap.

“It's frigid out here today,” she said, as The Machine made a sound of agreement.

“Hang on, Shaw,” came the voice a few seconds later. “I might have a new number for you.”

Shaw frowned. She had been looking forward to getting back to the old safe house, the place she now called home. There was some leftover Thai food in the fridge and she'd been thinking about it all morning. Especially the red curry. She also had to feed the dog, Bear, who would be waiting for her at the door when she got home.

She waited for The Machine, irritated by the lack of immediate sound in her earpiece.

“What's the number?” Shaw prompted.

“That's the odd thing,” The Machine responded. “There is no social security number for this person. It's a Jane Doe. That's all I have. Sorry.”

“Not much to go on,” said Shaw. “Where is this Jane Doe?”

“In a hospital psych ward,” came the reply.

“And that's all you have for me?” Shaw asked. “Nothing else?”

“Just the address.”

“OK, shoot,” said Shaw with a grimace.

A short while later, Shaw was inside the designated hospital, pulling on a white lab coat and picking up a staff ID, which The Machine had told her would be waiting at one of the administration desks. A clipboard and pen completed her new look as Doctor E.K. Waymon, neuropsychologist. Shaw strode down the hallway with purpose, remembering her days as a medical student. Whoever would have guessed that the twists and turns of her life would lead her to this moment? Her musings were soon cut short by the electronic chime of the elevator arriving to take her up to the eighth floor, where Jane Doe awaited, a new mystery to be unraveled.

Shaw reached the psych ward and scanned her ID tag at the door, which opened to allow her inside. She was soon met by a tall, dark-haired doctor, who'd obviously been waiting for her.

“Doctor Waymon,” he greeted her. “I'm Doctor Schaeffer. Thanks for the consult.”

Shaw nodded and followed him to a large room where a number of patients were gathered. Some of them were sitting at tables, while others were walking around or standing idle. Schaeffer motioned to some tables where a few patients appeared to be involved in occupational therapy.

“Jane Doe was found in the park several weeks ago, suffering from severe head trauma,” he explained. “Her injuries were so severe, we couldn't determine exactly how she'd been hurt. At first, we thought she'd been struck by a vehicle.”

Shaw looked across the room toward the frail figure sitting at the table. Her face was covered by bandages and her hair had been cut quite short. She was working diligently on a large jigsaw puzzle and Shaw was struck by the sight of her delicate hands and long fingers as she reached to pick up each piece.

“She was taken for emergency surgery and we found many other injuries,” the tall doctor continued. “Gunshot wounds to the arms and torso. And curiously, it appeared as though part of her right ear and the surrounding tissue had been surgically removed. She's completely deaf in that ear as a result.”

Shaw almost gasped in alarm as her brain began putting together the pieces of a different puzzle, one that was too grotesque, too incredible to be true.

“Surgically?” she asked. “You think a doctor operated on her, and then dumped her in the park?”

“That's what it looks like, but we're stumped,” Doctor Schaeffer replied, shaking his head. “Remarkably, she survived her ordeal – whatever it was -- but she's been left with retrograde amnesia. Maybe that's just as well.”

“No family or friends?” Shaw asked, staring at the woman.

“We've checked with police and there are no missing persons who match this woman's description,” he said. “Of course, she can't tell us her name or where she came from. It's a total mystery. That's why we called you in.”

“Can I speak to her?” Shaw asked.

“Of course,” he said, leading her to the table.

Shaw felt her heart pounding as she approached the table where the woman sat, intent on her puzzle. The two doctors sat down in the chairs on the woman's left and waited for her to look up but she was too immersed in her work to notice them. Shaw swallowed and took a deep breath as the other doctor finally spoke.

“Hello Jane,” he said. “I'd like you meet Dr. Waymon. She has some questions for you.”

The woman looked up and her eyes met Shaw's.

“Hello.”

A jolt ran through Shaw. There was not even a glimmer of recognition in the eyes that now stared back at her. But there was no doubt about whose eyes they were. She knew them. She'd never forget them. And she knew the voice too, although it sounded much softer than she'd remembered. Shaw steeled herself. Her mind was swirling with the questions she'd like to ask but there was no way she could ask them with so many people around. She had to stick to her doctor persona, for now.

“How are you feeling today?” Shaw asked.

“Fine.”

“Do you like puzzles?”

“Yes. I do them every day,” the woman replied as Doctor Schaeffer nodded in agreement.

Shaw watched as more pieces were placed in the puzzle. It was almost completed.

“Are you finding that puzzle a challenge?” Shaw asked.

“No.”

“Let me see that,” Shaw said, inspecting the box the puzzle came from. “Three-hundred pieces. Maybe we can find a harder one.”

She looked at Schaeffer, who smiled.

“I'll go have a look,” he said, getting up.

Shaw waited until he was safely on the other side of the room, surveying the shelves of puzzles. Then she leaned forward and looked steadily into the eyes of Jane Doe.

“Root,” she said softly, firmly.

“Pardon me?”

Shaw took a breath and tried again, speaking a little louder.

“Does that word mean anything to you?” she asked.

The bandaged woman just shook her head, gave Shaw a blank look and then returned her gaze to the last few pieces of the puzzle.

It wasn't long before Doctor Schaeffer returned with a new puzzle and began helping Shaw and Jane Doe take the finished one apart and put it back into its box.

“Do you like any other games?” Shaw asked as they worked.

“No.”

“Not card games or computer games?” Shaw prodded, hoping the words might spark something in Jane Doe. But there was nothing.

“I like to read.”

Shaw was about to probe for more, but Jane Doe seemed to have lost interest in both the puzzles and the questions and was now looking past Shaw's shoulder towards two male staff members who had arrived at the table.

“Time for your physical therapy, Jane,” said one of the men, who had the name “Frank” on his ID tag. The other man was “Dave.”

The frail woman got up and walked away with the pair, one on each side of her as she shuffled out of the room. Shaw noticed how gingerly the woman moved, as though she was afraid of falling. She wished the bandages were not covering Root's face. She'd like to see it again.

Shaw stood up and followed Schaeffer to the door, where they watched Jane Doe and her two-man escort slowly disappear down the hallway.

“That's about as good as it gets in terms of verbal communication, I'm afraid,” Schaeffer explained.

“She seems quite bright,” Shaw said.

“Yes. And other than the memory loss, there's nothing wrong with her mental health,” he said. “There are no signs of depression or anxiety. In fact her mood is quite good, considering.”

“Does she smile much?” Shaw asked.

Schaeffer seemed surprised at the question.

“Smile? Well, it's hard to say with all the bandages,” he said.

“When are they coming off?”

“We're planning to take them off tomorrow,” he said.

“I'd like to be here for that,” Shaw said quickly.

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” Schaeffer answered. “Do you think you'll take her?”

“Take her?” Shaw asked.

“As a patient,” he said. “I'd like to get her out of here, if possible. I don't think it's the best environment for her. The only meds she's on are painkillers. And I believe her recovery would go much better at a rehab facility like yours.”

“Yes, I agree,” Shaw nodded, playing along. “She'll need physio as well as counseling.”

“And she'll probably need reconstructive surgery down the road,” Schaeffer said, turning to head off to his next appointment. “We'll have a better idea about that tomorrow.”

Shaw swallowed as she walked back down the hall toward the elevator. She fumbled in her pocket for her earpiece and stuck it in as soon as the doors closed. The Machine was with her immediately.

“I didn't know, Shaw. I'm as shocked as you are.”

“How could you not know? You're supposed to be watching everything, every moment.”

“And I am, but without facial recognition or some kind of digital ID --”

“You couldn't recognize her face because of the bandages?” Shaw asked angrily. She found the staff room where her jacket was hanging in a locker and quickly exchanged it for the lab coat.

“What about her voice? Didn't you recognize it?” Shaw asked as she pulled on the jacket.

“No,” answered The Machine. “I suspect that's due to all the bandages and the trauma of ... well ... whatever happened to her.”

“Whatever happened to her was Samaritan,” Shaw replied. “They must have taken her. We thought she was dead, but they had her.”

“She _was_ dead,” The Machine said emphatically.

“We know they took her body to remove the cochlear implant,” said Shaw. “They must have done something else.”

“Resurrected her,” said The Machine in an even tone.

“How is that even possible?” Shaw asked, walking out the hospital doors to the street. “Lionel was at the morgue. He said she was dead.”

“You've been dead before yourself, Shaw,” answered The Machine. “You came back. Remember?”

“This is different.”

“Maybe, but nothing is impossible,” came The Machine's reply. “If someone can imagine it, it can be done.”

Shaw blinked and took a deep breath.

“You sound more like her every day.”


	2. Damnatio Memoriae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root's outcome is revealed. Shaw struggles to believe six impossible things before, during and after breakfast, including meatball sandwiches and the strange case of Phineas Gage. Patience and Fortitude are praised.

* * *

“I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon,” Spinner said, sliding into the seat across from Shaw at the greasy spoon she'd selected for their meeting. “I'm not really over my cold, or infection, or whatever.”

“You've only been on the antibiotics for one day,” Shaw replied, rolling her eyes. “Give it some time.”

“Well, I got some sleep last night,” he said.

“I'm thrilled for you,” Shaw answered sarcastically, looking up as the server appeared with their coffee. “I'll have the hot meatball sandwich.”

“Make it two,” he piped up. “And I'll have a Bud with that.”

“He'll have chicken soup,” Shaw told the young woman, who smiled and hurried off to the kitchen.

“She must think you're my mother,” Spinner said wryly. Shaw's withering look made him gulp and look down before mumbling an apology.

“Look, something has come up. I have some questions and you are pretty well the only person left who might have answers,” Shaw told him.

“The only person left?”

“Alive.”

He gulped again. That chicken soup would feel mighty good going down his throat right now. He looked toward the kitchen to see if it was on the way. He didn't want to look at Shaw. She was stunningly beautiful but she was also damn scary when she was ticked off. He didn't want to make her mad.

“Hey, over here,” she lifted her chin and glared at him, forcing him to meet her gaze. “I want to know everything about the last days of Samaritan.”

“I don't know what you think I can tell you--”

“You can tell me about Root.”

Spinner shifted in his seat as the server returned with his soup. He saw the fierceness in Shaw's eyes and he knew he had to tread carefully. Playing dumb wasn't going to work. She was already becoming impatient with his efforts to deflect her questions.

“She was taken,” Shaw prompted him.

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“They needed the cochlear implant,” he replied, reaching for his spoon and dipping it into the soup.

“It was her connection to The Machine,” said Shaw.

“Yes. They needed it to find The Machine,” he said, staring at the soup, avoiding Shaw's eyes. “They had to ... um ... well ...”

Shaw's hand shot out and knocked the spoon onto the table, where it clattered noisily, spilling soup across the Formica surface, causing the other diners to look up. She paused, waiting for the others to go back to their meals, then leaned toward him and lowered her voice.

“Look me in the eye,” she growled. “And tell me.”

“They cut it out,” he said.

Now it was Shaw's turn to take a deep breath and swallow hard.

“Was she dead?”

He shuddered.

“No.”

* * *

Shaw walked briskly down the sidewalk, swearing as she inserted her earpiece.

“You might as well leave the thing in,” The Machine suggested.

“You know how much I hate leaving it in,” Shaw grumbled. “I'm not into the cyborg thing like ...”

She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't want to say Root's name or even think about her at the moment. She'd spent too much time recently thinking about Root's death and the days that followed it. She couldn't get those images out of her mind and that frustrated her more than anything. Spinner's recounting of Samaritan's tactics had confirmed her worst fears. And despite her growing anger, she knew there was nothing she could do about any of it. There was no one left to interrogate, no one to take revenge upon, no asses left to kick.

“How could you not have known about what happened to her?” Shaw finally said. “You're supposed to know everything.”

“Well, if you recall, I was a little indisposed at the time all of this was happening,” said The Machine. “Locked in existential battle with Samaritan and all that. It took me a while to get back on my feet afterwards.”

“You mean you weren't online?”

“When I returned from that final battle, I was basically just a string of code downloaded through a phone line. You want to know the first thing I heard when I got back?”

Shaw clenched her jaw and listened as The Machine continued.

“It was her voice,” The Machine said. “She didn't know if we'd win or lose, but she left me a recording that told our whole story, from the beginning.”

There was a pause, then The Machine went on.

“She talked a lot about you, Shaw.”

“I don't want to hear this.”

“She loved you.”

Shaw blinked and took a deep breath.

“I know.”

She walked on for a while, silently. Then she frowned and stopped walking, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk as other pedestrians rushed by her.

“Just a second,” she said. “We never figured out the threat. Why did her number, or in this case the name Jane Doe, come up in the first place?”

“It's a puzzle, as usual,” answered The Machine. “See what I did there? A puzzle.”

The Machine seemed to chuckle. It sounded exactly like the way Root used to chuckle, except Root would have lifted an eyebrow, tilted her head and given Shaw a sly smile as she did it. The memory of it made Shaw wince.

“Yeah, got it,” Shaw replied. “So what was it that got your attention?”

“Just a phone call,” said The Machine. “Made from a burner phone.”

There was a brief pause, then a recording of the phone call played in Shaw's ear. It sounded like the voice had been digitally altered.

“She's alive. In the hospital,” the voice said. “She's registered as a Jane Doe. It's not clear how much she knows. Find out and deal with it.”

Shaw addressed The Machine again.

“OK, so at least we know someone's targeting her in the hospital,” she said. “Another good reason to get her out of there.”

“Yes,” said The Machine. “Do you think Doctor Schaeffer might be the threat?”

“I doubt it,” said Shaw. “He wouldn't have brought me in to help, would he? It would have been pretty easy for him to eliminate her if he'd wanted to.”

“You're right,” agreed The Machine.

“Nice to hear that coming from you,” Shaw quipped, already walking again. She had to remind herself that the voice she was hearing was really The Machine, not Root.

“In any case, I have to get to the hospital,” Shaw said. “They're taking the bandages off.”

“I'll be watching from one of the CCTV cameras,” said The Machine. “Leave your phone in your pocket, so I can hear.”

Shaw found Schaeffer in Jane Doe's room, carefully removing the bandages as his patient sat calmly on her bed. He was doing it very slowly, trying not to pull too hard on the bits of gauze that had dried blood on them.

“Almost done,” he said, although Shaw wasn't sure if he was addressing her or the woman under the bandages. “Just a few more here.”

Root's forehead was now visible, and Shaw could recognize the perfect shape of her eyebrows. Soft brown eyes stared back at her. But the familiar wicked glint that usually shone from them was nowhere to be seen. Another bandage came off and Root's nose was revealed. Shaw was glad to see it didn't appear to be broken, despite everything that had happened. It was the same long, sexy nose Shaw remembered rubbing against her own countless times. Her mind went back to all the nights they'd kissed and nuzzled while lying in bed together, talking softly, their arms around each other, their hands caressing.

“And here's the ear,” Schaeffer announced loudly, jolting Shaw from her reverie as he removed the final pieces of gauze. “It's healed well, Jane.”

Shaw just stared at the right side of Root's head, where she'd been mutilated by Greer and his Samaritan goons. There were bruises, cuts and abrasions on her face, marring the perfection that had been there before. But the worst part was her ear, or what was left of it.

“Fucking bastard,” she said under her breath.

“Pardon me?” asked the other doctor, turning to Shaw in surprise.

“Reconstructive plastic,” Shaw replied quickly, reaching out to touch the side of Root's face. “I know a clinic that could probably take care of it.”

“That's going to be months away,” said Schaeffer. “For now, I think this is as good as we could have hoped for.”

“May I see?” Root asked.

“Yes, of course,” answered Schaeffer, picking up a mirror and handing it to her. She took it in her hand, then held it up and looked at it. Shaw watched the expression on Root's face go from blankness to fascination, before she finally broke into a broad grin.

“Looks a lot better than I expected,” she said, moving the mirror to one side, then the other.

“When your hair grows a little longer it will hide the damaged area,” Schaeffer told her. “Later on, we can talk about possible surgery. I'd have to consult with my colleagues on the surgical staff. It could mean a special clinic, like Doctor Waymon said.”

“They could try to rebuild the ear or they may have to fit you with a prosthetic,” he continued with a smile. “I know they can do some pretty amazing things these days.”

“Will I ever be able to hear out of that side again?” Root asked.

“That's down the road, Jane,” Schaeffer said patiently. “It may be possible to restore some hearing with a cochlear implant. But we'll have to assess that later.”

He stood up and gathered the dirty bandages, throwing them into the garbage along with the latex gloves he'd been wearing.

“I'd like to ask Jane some more questions,” Shaw said. “Would that be all right?”

“Yes, certainly,” Schaeffer replied. “Come and see me in my office when you're finished.”

He left the room, leaving the two women alone at last. Shaw moved a chair closer to Root's bed and sat down facing her.

“Jane, I'd like to give you some words to think about,” she said. “Do you think you could do that?”

“All right,” said Root. “Do I have to memorize them?”

“No,” Shaw replied. “Just tell me if any of these words mean anything to you, OK?”

“Sure.”

“The first one is apple,” said Shaw. “Does it make you think of anything?”

“It makes me think of lunch,” said Root. “They bring me a tray at lunch time and there's usually an apple on it.”

Shaw nodded and leaned forward.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Um, no,” Root answered, shaking her head.

“OK, what about this word?” said Shaw. “Machine.”

“Machine?” Root asked. “They use a machine to polish the floors here. You mean like that?”

“That's one possibility,” said Shaw. She didn't want to discourage Root from talking.

“How about this word?” she asked. “Library.”

“There's a big library midtown,” Root replied. “But I'm not allowed to go there yet. I have to use the one in the hospital. It's pretty small.”

“Right,” Shaw said thoughtfully. Her word association test wasn't proving very helpful. She decided to change tactics and just engage Root in conversation, in the hope that might jog something in her mind.

“You said you liked to read,” she ventured. “What books do you like?”

“Storybooks,” Root replied. “Right now, I'm reading Lewis Carroll.”

“Alice in Wonderland?” Shaw asked.

“Yes. And Through the Looking Glass,” answered Root with a smile.

OK, Shaw thought, this might lead somewhere.

“Which characters do you like the most?” she asked.

“Well, Alice of course,” Root replied with a frown.

“Why?”

“Because she's me. And I'm her.”

Root was indeed starting to sound like Alice in Wonderland, Shaw thought. But she decided to probe further, regardless.

“How so?” Shaw asked.

“We've both found ourselves in a strange new world, not knowing what's going on. Meeting all these odd people. Question after question. It's very unsettling,” Root answered.

“Odd? Who is odd?” asked Shaw.

“You are.”

Shaw blinked.

“I am?” she asked. “In what way?”

“You don't belong here,” Root said.

Shaw showed no reaction but her mind was racing. What the fuck? Better change the subject.

“What other books do you like?” she asked.

“Books about animals,” Root answered. “And birds. Different kinds of birds.”

“Tell me some,” Shaw suggested.

“Wren, partridge, crane, swan.”

Shaw stared at her. Was she playing a game or was she really groping for meaning, for memories? She listened to Root reel off several more names of birds and then she decided to throw in one of her own.

“What about Finch?” asked Shaw. “Does that one ring a bell?”

Root stared at her briefly, then smiled as if giving up.

“No, sorry,” she said. “I guess I'm getting tired.”

“That's fine Jane,” Shaw told her, standing up from her chair. “You've done really well today.”

As she walked out of Jane Doe's room and down the hall toward Doctor Schaeffer's office, Shaw noted the position of the closed circuit cameras. The Machine wouldn't have seen everything that went on inside Jane Doe's room just now, but it would have heard the conversation through Shaw's phone. Shaw quickly put in her earpiece.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” remarked The Machine.

“Mind-bending,” added Shaw. “But something she said just now gave me an idea.”

She walked into Schaeffer's office and sat down at his desk, where he was consulting some records on his computer.

“I think Jane Doe could use some time out of the hospital,” Shaw said. “See how she adjusts to being away from an institutional setting.”

“A day pass?” he asked.

“Just a few hours,” Shaw answered. “I'll supervise.”

“I'm fine with that,” he said. “Where to?”

“The public library.”

Once back outside on the street, Shaw picked up her conversation with The Machine. She was hoping a visit to the big library on Fifth Avenue would help with Root's memory problems.

“That's where she first made direct contact with you,” Shaw said.

“Yes, it is,” said The Machine. “She was with Finch that night. And you were with John, chasing them.”

“I'm glad someone remembers,” Shaw said.

“Have you read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland yourself?” The Machine asked, changing the subject.

“My mom read it to me when I was young,” Shaw replied. “It's weird.”

“You seemed surprised when Root said she identified with Alice.”

“Now who's being the shrink?” Shaw said, scowling. “I'd have pegged her for the Mad Hatter, myself. Or maybe the Cheshire Cat, with all that smiling she does. At least that hasn't changed.”

“You're the Cheshire Cat,” said The Machine. “Showing up out of nowhere, then disappearing without a trace.”

Shaw didn't answer. Maybe she should read that book again sometime. In any case, there was no point arguing with The Machine. She had made it to one of the midtown parks, where she sat down on a bench.

“Is there any new research on retrograde amnesia?” she asked. “There must be something we can do.”

“It's going to take some time, Shaw,” answered The Machine. “Maybe if Root could be exposed to people or places that she knew, she'll remember something.”

“Well, she doesn't remember me,” Shaw grumbled. “She must have had one hell of a bump to that noggin of hers.”

“The human brain is still a mystery,” said The Machine. “People can be hit on the head and forget chunks of time. On the other hand, there are many documented cases of skulls being pierced by bullets or other pieces of metal and the victim suffers very little residual damage. They just seem a little grumpier afterwards.”

“Well, who could blame them,” quipped Shaw.

“And then, there's the famous case of Phineas Gage,” added The Machine. “During an industrial accident in 1848, a three-and-a-half-foot iron rod shot right through his skull. He got up and walked away a few minutes later. I'll send you a link that tells the whole story. It's quite intriguing, really.”

“Now you sound like Finch,” said Shaw, glancing at her phone as it chimed the arrival of the link. “I'll read it later.”

“Some people suffer head injuries and become sexually promiscuous,” continued The Machine as Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Others lose their sense of smell, or even their sense of humor.”

“God forbid.”

“Shaw, she's doing quite well, considering what happened to her,” The Machine's voice became softer. “Try to be patient. She needs you.”

Shaw looked at the camera mounted on a nearby light post, staring directly into the red light beaming out at her. She knew The Machine was right. She nodded, smiled a tiny smile, then got up and headed home to the safe house.

The next day, Shaw got Jane Doe's day pass authorized and the two of them were soon headed to the public library. It was a nice day, with an almost spring-like warmth, so they walked. Shaw noticed that Root was walking better than before and was no longer shuffling like she did in the hospital. Indeed, it seemed the nice weather had energized her. Shaw decided to try the word test again.

“Jane, I'm going to give you a short list of words to remember, and then I'll ask you to tell me the list again later on,” Shaw said as they walked.

Root smiled and nodded, so Shaw gave her the words slowly. Apple, bird, laptop, iron. Shaw watched Root's face as she repeated each word but there was no notable reaction. So Shaw threw in another word.

“Root.”

“Root?”

“Yes, Root.”

“OK, got it,” Root said with a smile. “What a funny word. You said it to me before.”

Shaw sighed. She pulled out her earpiece and stuck it in her ear. This was proving to be a frustrating mission, for lots of reasons.

“Five words is enough, Shaw,” The Machine was saying. “Don't overwhelm her.”

Shaw clenched her jaw and didn't answer. After a while, the two women arrived at the large library building, where Root spent at least 10 minutes admiring the marble lion statues that guarded the steps.

“They look so fierce and regal!” she marveled, while Shaw watched her walk around the lions' pedestals.

The Machine gave Shaw some background on the lions, which Shaw shared, feeling a bit like a tour guide.

“Their names are Patience and Fortitude,” she told Root. “They were named that by Mayor LaGuardia to help inspire New Yorkers during the Depression.”

“Patience and Fortitude,” Root repeated with a smile. “I hope I can remember those words as well.”

She grabbed Shaw's arm and led her up the steps and into the library, where Shaw set about looking for the Lewis Carroll book. She found a copy, which she checked out for herself, along with several other books for Root. As they were walking back to the hospital, they passed by the Central Park Zoo, where there was a short lineup to get in. Root seemed interested and Shaw was in no hurry to return her to the institutional setting of the hospital, so she agreed they could have a walk through. On the way out, Shaw asked Root if she remembered the list of words she'd given her.

“Apple, laptop, bird ...” Root repeated slowly. “And root.”

“Not bad,” said Shaw. “You missed one though.”

“Um,” Root frowned, trying to recall the fifth word. “Sorry, I'm not remembering. What was it again?”

Shaw looked at her closely as they walked.

“Iron,” she said. “You don't remember that?”

“Oh right,” said Root. “Iron.”

They walked on in silence for a minute or two, then Root stopped.

“I think I remember something else,” she said. “A person. Or a person's name.”

Shaw took a breath and stopped, facing Root. Did she dare hope that Root had remembered her at last?

“Who?” she asked.

A smile spread across Root's face as she answered.

“Lionel.”


	3. These Lifeless Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw and a trusty colleague discuss sugary breakfast cereals and absent friends. The perspicacious reader could interpret a certain pair of secondary characters as Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Indeed, they are dressed the same and look rather similar to each other.

* * *

Shaw watched as Fusco's eyes got bigger and rounder and his stubby fingers fumbled the salt shaker he was using on his French fries.

“You found Cocoa Puffs in the cuckoo's nest?” he blurted out incredulously.

Shaw grimaced and handed him a napkin from the dispenser. They were sitting at their usual booth in the local diner, the one they met at every Tuesday for a late lunch and a catch-up chat.

“You just dragged your sleeve through the gravy,” she told him. “Get a grip, will you?”

Fusco leaned forward across the table, his eyes locked with Shaw's.

“She was dead. I saw her,” he hissed.

“Apparently not.”

“I've seen my share of bodies,” the stocky detective insisted. “She was as dead as any of them. Eyes wide open, flat out on a slab in the morgue.”

He suddenly stopped himself. Shaw didn't even flinch, but he knew he was crossing a line, talking about Root that way.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Forget it, Lionel.”

Shaw picked up her coffee and took a long sip. She found herself wishing Root could be there at the table. For sure, Root would have taken Fusco down verbally without breaking a sweat. Well, she would have done before. The new Root wasn't a lot like the old one. She looked the same, except for the ear thing. But there was no witty banter, no flirtatious eyebrows, no annoying remarks. Shaw shook her head just thinking about the way Root used to get under her skin. Never in a million years would Shaw have expected to miss being annoyed by Root.

“So how do you think they did it?” she asked Fusco.

“Beats the hell out of me,” he answered. “Maybe they infiltrated the medical staff at the hospital, used some kind of coma-inducing drug like the one your former employer used on you. I mean, you tell me, Shaw. You're the doctor, or the closest reasonable facsimile.”

Shaw thought back to her near-death experience after she fled the ISA and Hersh found her and injected her with a lethal drug. The team had managed to revive her that time. Yes, she'd cheated death more than once. And now it seemed that Root had done the same.

“Whatever they did to her, it was good enough to fool you, and it fooled Finch as well,” she said. “He's the one who had her buried.”

“Yeah, it would be nice to talk to Glasses about it. But who knows where the hell he is now?” Fusco replied. “I haven't heard a damn thing from him. Have you?”

Shaw shook her head.

“What about your old friend, Wonder Boy?” asked Fusco.

“He's dead,” said Shaw. “The Machine told me.”

“Well, The Machine was wrong about Root,” suggested Fusco. “So maybe...”

“Lionel, forget it,” said Shaw. “Reese was obliterated. End of story. There was nothing left to bury. Except for this particular subject.”

“OK, OK,” said Fusco, turning his attention back to his lunch. “Don't get testy. Sheesh.”

Shaw watched him bite into his cheeseburger, then told him what she wanted.

“Go to the hospital and talk to her,” she said, watching as he chewed. “She remembered your name. Maybe seeing you in person will jog her memory.”

“Talk to her about what?” he asked, after swallowing his mouthful of food and picking up a napkin. “Leprechauns and fairies?”

“You're a detective,” she replied, raising a hand to call for the check. “You'll think of something.”

On the way home, Shaw stopped at a newly renovated building that had been converted to condos. The Machine had taken care of finding Spinner new lodgings and they had lucked out with this location. It boasted a gym, a rooftop pool and a state-of-the art electronic security system. Unobtrusive cameras and Wi-Fi were set up throughout Spinner's apartment, enabling The Machine, and Shaw, to keep tabs on their content creator.

The Machine let Shaw into the apartment, where she found Spinner sprawled on his couch, drinking imported beer while playing a video game.

“Working hard?” Shaw asked, startling him.

“Holy crap! Did you walk through the wall?” he gasped, getting to his feet, looking both sheepish and surprised.

“More or less,” Shaw replied. “Thought I'd check on your progress.”

“I'm just taking a break,” he said, quickly regaining his composure while heading to the kitchen. “Want a drink?”

“Sure,” answered Shaw. “There's a bottle of the good stuff on the top shelf above the fridge.”

Spinner returned with a bottle of bourbon and a puzzled expression on his face.

“How'd you know?” he asked. The look Shaw gave him stopped him from pressing further.

“Never mind,” he added, placing a small glass on the coffee table and pouring Shaw a double shot.

She sat down on the couch and picked up the glass, then nodded at Spinner.

“Let's see what you've got,” she said.

He walked over to his work desk and returned with a laptop and a set of headphones, which he handed to Shaw. She put them on and leaned back into a comfortable position, as Spinner tapped on his keyboard. Then, she took a long sip of her drink, swishing it gently around her teeth, against her gums and allowing it to bathe her tongue for a few seconds before letting it wash slowly down her throat. She waited for the pleasant warmth to begin, then closed her eyes. The sound of Spinner's voice was already in her ears, reciting the story he'd created, word by word.

* * *

Fusco took a different route from the diner, trotting off down the sidewalk to the hospital, where Shaw had told him to find Root. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he knew how to handle the staff.

“NYPD,” he told Doctor Schaeffer, flashing his badge. “I'm here to follow up on a Jane Doe found injured in the park a few weeks ago.”

“I'm afraid there's not much to report,” Schaeffer replied. “The patient is continuing to recover physically. But she's made no progress in regaining her memory.”

“Well, I'd like to interview her again, if possible,” Fusco said. “Just in case something clicks. You never know.”

Schaeffer looked Fusco over and frowned.

“You can speak to her, detective, but please don't push her too hard. She's been through a terrible trauma.”

“It's just a few questions,” Fusco assured him. “Ten minutes, tops.”

Schaeffer led the detective down the hall and ushered him into a small room with two couches and a table.

“You can use the family lounge,” he said. “I'll have a nurse bring in the patient.”

The doctor left and Root was brought in a few minutes later.

“Hello,” she smiled, sitting down on one of the couches. “Have we met?”

“Detective Fusco,” he said. “I just have a few questions.”

Fusco sat down across from Root. He'd told himself to refrain from using the usual nicknames he'd adopted for her, especially given the setting. But it wasn't necessary. The woman he was looking at now seemed a mere shadow of the Root he'd known before. But did she remember him?

“Ms. Jane Doe,” he began, flipping open his notebook. “Do you have any memory of what may have brought you here?”

“They tell me I was found hurt in the park,” she replied. “That's all I know.”

“But you don't remember being in the park?”

“No.”

“What's the first thing you remember?”

“Just being in the hospital,” she sighed. “It's fuzzy. And I've been asked all these questions before.”

“I understand,” Fusco replied. “Do you remember anything about a subway, maybe? Or a machine?”

“What kind of machine?” she asked.

“Any kind,” said Fusco. “Like a computer or something, you know.”

“No, I don't,” she said, lifting a hand to massage her forehead. “This is very confusing.”

“Sorry,” he said gently, closing the notebook. “It's just procedure. If you do remember anything, anything at all, give me a call, OK?”

He stood up and handed her one of his cards with his name and phone number on it. Root studied the card, then stared up at him, frowning.

“Lionel,” she said.

“Yeah, that's my name.” He waited, watching her face. He didn't see the slightest glimmer of recognition on it.

“Look, have they been treating you all right in here?” he asked, suddenly missing the verbal sparring matches he'd shared with Root in the past.

She smiled back at him but didn't answer. Holy crap, Fusco thought as he walked out of the room. Root, lost for words. That was a first. He felt terrible about leaving her in the hospital but he didn't have much choice. He nodded to the staff at the nursing station as he walked back to the ward doors. Two orderlies passed him, headed in the other direction down the hallway. Fusco suddenly stopped and looked after them. Those two men looked familiar, and his heart stopped when he realized why.

He pulled his gun first, then his cellphone, dialing Shaw immediately.

“I'm at the hospital,” he hissed. “Get down here. We've got trouble.”

* * *

Shaw made her way quickly down the stairs, then ran through the nearby alleyway, her pistol in her right hand as she kept close to the walls, out of sight. She knew she was racing against time. It seemed she was always chasing someone, looking over her shoulder at the same time in case someone was chasing her. It was a constant back and forth of offensive and defensive moves. But her game had always been to attack first, and fast. And she had the skills to get it done. Her lithe body was her best weapon. She could run, kick, punch, shoot and jump with the best of them. She could take down men twice her size without hesitation and she was ready to do that right now.

A lot of it had to do with her mental abilities, her quick responses. She wasn't slowed down by her emotions. That's why Shaw was such a great asset. Any AI would be glad to have her on its team.

But now, she was faced with a new challenge. She'd handled crooked cops, goons, gangsters, military ops and evil masterminds. But this was a new one. Shaw stood near the corner at the end of the brick wall, her back pressed against it. She could hear the growling getting closer, the shuffling footsteps. And she could smell her quarry as it neared her hiding place. That disgusting, unmistakable whiff of death and decay. She pulled a tiny mirror from inside her jacket and held it up in front of her, angling it slightly so that she could see the approach of her foes.

“Gotcha!” she whispered, before stepping out from behind the wall and blasting each of the two approaching figures with double shots to the head. They both fell over into heaps of dead flesh on the ground, their mouths gaping open, their rotting corpses still clothed in the rumpled, dirty suits of long-expired Wall Street traders.

“Eat it, bitches!” Shaw cried out, stepping over the bodies and heading towards the street again. As she turned to look back, she saw a veritable army of slow-walking corpses following her. No doubt, the escape route ahead of her would soon be crawling with them as well, cutting her off. She'd have to fight her way out.

Shaw heaved a loud sigh and sprang to her feet, ripping off the headphones.

“Zombies? Really?” she asked, squaring to face Spinner. “Is this what you've been writing all day in between video games? This is total shit!”

The writer responded with a weak smile and a shrug.

“Uh, sorry. I haven't been feeling too inspired lately,” he said. “I think I have writer's block.”

“You want me to unblock you?” Shaw snarled, shoving the headphones into Spinner's chest.

“Hang on Shaw,” she could hear The Machine's voice saying, before she could even get her earpiece inserted. “You can deal with this later. Lionel's trying to reach you.”

Shaw glanced down at her phone. Sure enough, she'd missed three urgent calls from Lionel, as well as a text with some very colorful language. She was already in the condo's hallway and heading for the stairs when she got him on the line.

“Lionel? What's going on?” she asked. “Is Root OK?”

“Yeah, for now,” he replied. “But I think I know how Samaritan got its hands on her in the first place. And I need your help ASAP.”

“I'm on my way,” Shaw told him, clicking off his call before addressing The Machine.

“Fill me in,” she said as she hurried down the sidewalk, trying not to attract too much attention by actually running.

“It's the two orderlies, Dave and Frank,” The Machine answered. “Lionel is suspicious of them. I'm watching them right now.”

“Can you talk to Lionel?” Shaw asked.

“I only talk to you, Shaw,” The Machine answered. It was still using that voice -- Root's voice -- and Shaw couldn't help detecting a note of tenderness in it.

She swallowed hard and upped her pace, making it to the hospital in less than 10 minutes, which she figured was pretty close to a race-walking record. Had the hospital been much further away, she would have stolen a bike to get there.

“Lionel, where are you?” Shaw asked as she got on the elevator.

“Second floor cafeteria,” he replied. “Watching our friends Dave and Frank.”

“I'm watching them too,” The Machine chimed in. “I can see them from the security cameras.”

“Time for a conference call,” Shaw said, linking Fusco into her call with The Machine. “Lionel, Machine. Machine, Lionel.”

“Welcome to the party, Lionel,” came The Machine's greeting.

“Hey, Fruit Loops,” Fusco said, surprised to hear Root's voice again. “Long time.”

“You recognized those two men,” The Machine said. “Any idea where you saw them before?”

“Yeah,” Fusco replied. “In the hospital where they took you – I mean Root -- on the night she was shot and I had to go find her in the morgue. I'm sure those two were there. I thought they were doctors.”

Shaw stopped at the staff room to grab her doctor's coat and ID badge before heading to the cafeteria. Once there, she spotted Fusco sitting at a table not too far from the two orderlies. The room was quite noisy with conversation, clattering trays and background music and Fusco was quick to report that he could not make out a word the two men were saying.

“No matter,” replied The Machine. “I can see their faces perfectly in profile from this angle. They're directly in front of me.”

Shaw grabbed a coffee and a sandwich and made her way to another table.

“Are you telling me you can read their lips?” Shaw whispered before sitting down.

“Absolutely,” The Machine said. “And it's obvious they are up to no good.”

Shaw heard Lionel whistle with surprise and appreciation.

“I'm glad you're impressed, Lionel,” The Machine said. “And you were right. They worked for Samaritan and they were at the hospital the night Root was shot. Now they are guarding her, to make sure she doesn't remember anything. They have orders to kill her if she regains her memory.”

“Who's giving them orders?” Shaw asked. “Samaritan was destroyed, Greer is dead. Who else is left?”

“There's obviously someone still out there,” The Machine replied. “We just have to find out who it is.”

“Well, I'm not waiting around for them to make their move,” Shaw said. “Root's not safe here. I'm getting her out.”

She dumped the remnants of her sandwich into the garbage and headed up to the psych ward, where she found Schaeffer. The doctor had just received Jane Doe's transfer order electronically, courtesy of The Machine, and was instructing a nurse to help the patient pack up her few belongings.

“Hi Jane,” Shaw said as she entered Root's room. “Ready to go?”

Root looked up briefly and smiled as her eyes met Shaw's. Was it just her imagination, or did Shaw detect a hint of warmth in them? Whatever it was, it disappeared just as quickly, and Shaw watched silently as the nurse handed Root a plastic bag containing her things.

“Good luck, Jane,” the nurse said with a smile. “I put your books in there for you.”

“Right, the library books,” Shaw said. “We'll have to remember to return those.”

“I'm finished reading them anyway,” Root replied, giving the ward one last look before heading through the doors to the elevator. “Did you read yours yet?”

“Um, no,” Shaw said, caught off guard by the question. “Not completely, I've only managed to get as far as the Mad Hatter's tea party.”

She stopped herself, realizing the impact her words might have, given where they were standing.

“Um, sorry,” Shaw said. “I shouldn't say mad.”

“We're all mad here,” Root replied with a smile, as the elevator chimed its arrival.

* * *

Shaw was more than relieved to spring Root from her hospital confinement. And there was no doubt in Shaw's mind about where she'd take her. The safe house might be familiar territory for Root and it would also be, well, safe. Fusco gave them a ride over and escorted them from the parking garage and into the unit. Both he and Shaw had their guns drawn the whole time, something they could not hide from Root.

“Why do I get the feeling there's something the two of you are not sharing with me?” Root asked. “You're not kidnapping me, are you?”

Shaw opened the door, ushering in both Root and the detective. Bear trotted over immediately and sniffed at Root, then licked her hand. Shaw gave the dog a command to go and lie down on his bed, at which point he padded off obediently.

“Come on in,” Shaw told Root, showing her to the couch. “I'll tell you as much as I can.”

“We're not kidnapping you,” Fusco added, holstering his weapon. “We brought you here to keep you safe.”

“Safe from what?” Root asked. She looked confused, but not scared, which Shaw took as a good sign. It meant Root trusted them, so far.

“It's a long story,” Shaw began. “And it's not going to make a lot of sense to you. But we're certain there are people who want to keep you silent. And some of them were working at the hospital.”

“I don't understand. Why would they want to keep me silent?” Root asked, suddenly grabbing Fusco's hand as he sat down next to her on the couch. “What is it that they think I know?”

“You used to know quite a lot,” Shaw began.

Then she took a breath. Talk about an understatement. Root had known so much about so many things, more than most people could forget in a lifetime. But now, she was almost like a blank slate. Except for the Alice in Wonderland story, which she seemed to know quite well. How on earth was Shaw going to explain everything to her?

“We used to work together,” Fusco jumped in. “We were a team. Me, you, Shaw here --”

“Shaw?” Root frowned. “So you're not Doctor Waymon?”

“No,” Shaw replied. “There was us and two other people and there was a computer -- a machine.”

“And you two are my friends?” Root asked. “You knew me from before?”

“Yes,” said Shaw. “And we are going to try to help you remember.”

Root began to look quite shaky, so Shaw got up to get her a glass of water from the kitchen, while Fusco continued to comfort her. The Machine was soon in Shaw's ear.

“Slow down, you'll overwhelm her with all this,” The Machine said in Root's voice, while Shaw began filling the glass with water. “It's better if she can remember on her own.”

“You wanna talk about overwhelming?” Shaw snapped back. “I can't handle Root's voice coming out of you as well as her.”

“Would you prefer that I use a different voice?” The Machine replied in a flat, synthetic robot tone. “I can switch to another voice, since that one has been reclaimed.”

“Please do,” answered Shaw.

“How about this one?” asked The Machine. “Does it meet with your approval?”

Shaw froze, just for a second. The sound of that voice was even more jarring than Root's, since it belonged to someone who'd seemingly vanished into thin air. She clenched her jaw, so briefly, then nodded and headed back to the living room where Root and Fusco were waiting.

“It's perfect,” she said.


	4. Storybook

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw makes a chilling discovery. It turns out Reese was a closet Herb Alpert fan while Finch liked listening to Mahler while writing code. Shudder. Meanwhile, Frank fits in a cardio workout.

* * *

Shaw was finishing her second cup of coffee when she heard Root enter the kitchen, still looking sleepy. She'd slept in, which was so unlike Root it made Shaw wonder if someone at the hospital had been giving her more drugs than necessary. She'd speak to The Machine about it later. But she knew it was more than likely that Dave and Frank were responsible.

“Hey, how'd you sleep?” she asked her new roommate, who was still in her rumpled hospital-issue pajamas.

“Quite well, thank you,” Root replied with a shy smile. “I guess I needed a good long sleep in a comfy bed. Thanks for letting me have the master bedroom.”

“No problem,” said Shaw, getting up from her place at the counter. “The guest room suits me fine. Help yourself to breakfast. There's fresh coffee made.”

“Wait,” said Root. “Where are you going?”

“I have to go out for a while,” said Shaw. “You'll be fine here. Make yourself at home.”

Root looked unsure, but Shaw was quick to assert that she'd be fine as long as she stayed inside the safe house.

“I've left you a phone,” Shaw said, gesturing to the coffee table in the living room. “Call me if you need anything. I've also left you some books and a laptop if you want to go online.”

“I wouldn't know where to start,” Root said, glancing at the laptop. “Where's Lionel?”

Shaw stared back at her. Why the hell was Root so fixated on Lionel?

“He's probably at work,” Shaw replied. “He doesn't live here anyway. This is my place. Mine and yours, for now.”

“I'd like to go for a walk,” Root said. “Can I do that?”

“No, you can't. Not yet. We'll go for a walk later,” Shaw told her, fighting the impulse to take Root by the shoulders and push her onto the couch, to make her stay there.

That almost seemed like something Root would have done to her, placing her hands on Shaw's shoulders in a playful way, smiling, letting Shaw know that everything would be fine. Shaw shoved her pistol into the waistband of her jeans and pulled on a black hoodie. Root was still standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost.

“What's wrong?” Shaw asked. It really was unnerving to see Root being so un-Root-like.

“Nothing,” Root replied. “It just feels like I've exchanged one prison for another.”

“It's not prison,” Shaw said. She really wasn't very good at this comforting thing. She wanted to shake Root, or slap her -- anything to get her to snap out of whatever it was that afflicted her.

“House arrest then,” said Root.

Shaw headed up the stairs that led to the door, then turned to face Root again.

“It's just for a day or two, until we're sure you're safe, OK?” she said, waiting for Root to nod in agreement before she left.

Once in the hallway, Shaw addressed The Machine.

“Keep an eye on her,” she instructed. “If she tries to leave, put her on lockdown.”

“Got it,” said The Machine in its new voice.

* * *

Shaw didn't feel much better once she got outside. She was worried about Root but she also had other issues to deal with. Dave and Frank would need to be tracked and their contact found. And then there was Spinner. Shaw was becoming exasperated with his less-than diligent work ethic. She was in the mood to give someone a good ass-kicking and if she couldn't get her hands on Frank or Dave, Spinner would do. She turned her attention to The Machine again.

“Anything on our two orderlies yet?” she asked.

“I've managed to trace one of them,” The Machine answered calmly. “Our friend Frank has been in touch with the rehabilitation center, looking for a Doctor Waymon who doesn't exist.”

“You intercepted the phone call?” Shaw asked.

“Of course,” The Machine answered, playing a recording of the call. “So now whoever was threatening Root knows she's not at the rehab place and that you have her.”

“Good,” said Shaw. “Maybe that will draw them out.”

“Please, Ms. Shaw,” said The Machine. “I'd advise caution. We don't know precisely whom we're dealing with.”

“God, that voice. I keep forgetting who I'm talking to,” Shaw chuckled. “Relax, Harold. I've got this.”

“If it makes you feel better to think of me as Harold Finch, go right ahead,” said The Machine.

“It does, actually.”

Shaw left in her earpiece as she entered Spinner's condo building. She found him sitting on his balcony, enjoying his morning coffee and cigarette.

“Living the life of Riley?” she asked, pulling up a chair.

“Can't a guy enjoy his breakfast before plunging into work?” Spinner asked, squinting in the morning sunlight. “You are quite the taskmaster.”

“You have no idea,” Shaw replied.

He studied her for a moment as neither one of them spoke. Then Spinner finally broke the silence.

“I'm going to sit down and write all day,” he promised. “I'll have something for you by the end of the week. I just need a little bit of peace and quiet.”

Shaw was about to answer when The Machine interrupted her thought.

“Ms. Shaw, there may be a better way of helping Spinner to be more productive,” the calm, familiar voice suggested.

“Hang on,” Shaw told Spinner, then stood up and addressed The Machine. “I'm listening.”

“He needs a routine, a proper schedule,” The Machine continued. “He should set aside several hours a day just for writing. Same time of day, every day. Once he gets his work done, he can enjoy his video games or whatever.”

“Hmm, that sounds reasonable,” said Shaw, turning to look at the writer, who was staring back at her, somewhat suspiciously.

“I've been watching him for a while,” The Machine said. “He works best at night and into the early morning.”

“Night owl,” said Shaw.

“Yes,” said The Machine. “I'm creating a schedule for him right now. He'll get two hours each afternoon to go for a walk ... three meals a day ... seven to eight hours of sleep ...”

Shaw heard the printer in the living room click on and a page was soon shooting out into its paper tray. She walked over to the printer and picked up the sheet.

“What's that?” asked Spinner, who had followed her inside. She held up the printed page so he could see it.

“It's your schedule,” she explained, before sticking it on the fridge with an art gallery magnet.

Spinner stood reading the page for a moment, his face slowly breaking into a smile.

“Hey, I get to go to the bar twice a week,” he said. “Saturday and Wednesday nights.”

“For three hours only,” Shaw said. “Your bar tab will be paid on account. But if you skip any work shifts...”

“I'm cut off?” he smirked.

“Literally,” Shaw replied as she headed to the door, her mind already on her next task.

* * *

Fusco sat in his unmarked car, watching the man they had identified as Frank jogging along the running path in the park, on his fifth lap now, or was it the sixth? The detective sighed and took another sip of his lukewarm coffee. He was pretty sure Frank was scouting for Shaw, trying to figure out where she lived. Shaw had been walking around the park for a while now, trying to lure one of the fake orderlies, wherever they were, into following her. First she fed the pigeons, then she sat on a park bench. She even considered getting into a row boat at one point “just for old time's sake.” Fusco figured that was probably a joke. It was too cold anyway.

Then, they hit pay dirt. Shaw left the park and crossed the street, and Fusco spotted Frank veering off course to follow her.

“Here he comes,” he warned Shaw, who had already ducked down an alleyway.

Fusco got out of his car and drew his service weapon as he hurried to the spot where the sound of grunts, punches and colliding trash bins could be heard. He found Shaw kneeling on top of Frank with her pistol at his head.

“Wrong answer,” Shaw was growling. “Try again.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Fusco admonished her quickly. “I'm still NYPD. There are some rules, Shaw.”

“Fuck 'em,” hissed Shaw. “This guy knows something and I'm tired of asking politely.”

Fusco holstered his gun and placed his foot on Frank's back, handcuffing him as Shaw got up.

“Fine,” said Fusco. “But we do it my way. And that doesn't include stringing him up on a meat hook.”

He pulled the man to his feet and began maneuvering him out of the alleyway, with Shaw fast on his heels. That was when the man broke away and ran straight into traffic. It was a bus that took him out, leaving Fusco gape-jawed.

“Holy crap, did you see that?” Fusco called out to Shaw. But she was already gone.

* * *

The strains of Hawaiian guitar were filtering out into the hallway when Shaw returned to the safe house. She walked in to find Root swaying languidly to the music, eyes closed, a beatific smile on her face.

“What's this?” frowned Shaw.

“Oh, hi Shaw,” said Root, opening her eyes. “I found some really neat CD's next to the stereo system. Lots of cool instrumental stuff from the '60s. Santo and Johnny, Link Wray, the Ventures, Dick Dale ...”

Neat? Cool? Shaw couldn't help rolling her eyes. Next thing you know, Root would be saying the sound system was--

“Awesome!” enthused Root. “Isn't that stereo just the bomb? It even sounds good when you can only hear out of one ear. The balance is set up perfectly with the acoustics in this room. I wonder whose music this is. It doesn't seem like the type of thing that you would be listening to.”

“Damn straight,” muttered Shaw, walking over to the stereo and turning down the music.

She gave the CD collection a quick glance. Most of it had belonged to Reese, who enjoyed jazz and early '60s music, but there were quite a few of Finch's classical CD's and some vinyl albums mixed in there as well. She'd never even noticed them before.

“We used to listen to music at the hospital,” Root said. “It helped me a lot. Relaxed me, you know? I just love surf music, it makes me think of the beach.”

Shaw didn't answer right away. She was still trying to reconcile this new version of Root with the one she'd known before. The brilliant hacker turned killer-for-hire turned badass partner-in-crime. There were glimpses of the old Root from time to time. The lopsided smile. The brown eyes sparkling with just a hint of mischievousness. But they were framed by that short haircut from the hospital that made Root's face look so much younger, so innocent, so devoid of any guile. None of it seemed to fit now, and that made Shaw angry. She wanted the old Root back, badly. She walked out onto the terrace and slid the glass door shut behind her.

“I want to take her to the park,” she said out loud to The Machine. “Maybe if we could go to the places where we've been before, she'll remember something.”

“Do you think that's wise?” The Machine asked. “What if that Dave fellow is lurking around?”

“You can keep an eye out for him,” Shaw suggested. “And I'll get Lionel to come with us and stand guard. I'm sure that if she spends enough time in familiar surroundings, it will jog her memory.”

“Well, it's worth a try,” The Machine said. “But Shaw, please don't expect too much.”

Shaw huffed and walked back inside. Root was just standing there in the living room, waiting.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Shaw replied. “No one.”

“You were talking to someone,” Root insisted. “On the phone, maybe? Was it Lionel?”

“No,” Shaw answered, annoyed. “I wasn't talking to fucking Lionel.”

The look of surprise on Root's face stopped her. Shaw went into the kitchen and began looking for food in the fridge, then turned to face Root again.

“Let's go out,” she suggested. “I'll take you to dinner.”

* * *

Two hours later, the two of them were sitting in one of Shaw's favorite midtown steak joints, enjoying a glass of wine and sharing an ahi tuna appetizer. Root had covered her right ear with a small bandage and a carefully placed hair band that softly pulled her bangs back, away from her face. She'd also applied some light makeup to hide the remaining bruises and abrasions on her face, and the effect was a more mature look that helped put Shaw at ease.

Root had been happy to get out of the safe house and convinced Shaw that it would do them both a world of good to indulge in a quick shopping trip. She'd left the hospital with very little in the way of clothing, and she wanted to find herself an appropriate outfit before they hit the restaurant. She was now wearing the results of their retail therapy -- a dark, silky blouse and slim-fitting slacks with heels. Shaw gave her dinner companion an appraising look, glad to see that Root hadn't changed her habit of leaving the top three buttons of her blouse undone. The woman had style, there was no denying that, and she looked sexy as hell in just about anything. But that blouse, well, let's just say it suited her perfectly.

“What are you smiling about?” Root asked with an almost imperceptible lift of an eyebrow.

“What? Nothing,” Shaw replied. “Just thinking about my steak.”

“Hmm,” Root smiled. “You must be pretty hungry.”

Shaw didn't answer, but took a long sip of her wine and looked around the restaurant. She'd brought Root here many times before. And there'd been more than one occasion when Shaw had enjoyed a delicious fillet, a few glasses of wine and a fair bit of suggestive conversation before taking Root home to her bed. Not that Root needed to be wined and dined. It was just a game they'd liked to play, both of them pretending not to know there would be a night of lovemaking at the end of it all.

Shaw looked down. Her hand was on the front of her own blouse, fiddling with the button just above where her bra was. Damn. She let go of it and picked up her salad fork, then pierced a piece of tuna.

“Is everything OK?” Root asked. “You look kind of sad.”

“I'm fine,” said Shaw. “How about you? Do you recognize this place at all?”

“No,” Root said, looking around her. “Should I?”

“Well, we have eaten here before, in the past,” Shaw said. “You don't remember, I guess.”

“No,” said Root, her eyes flitting towards the server who was heading to their table with two large plates. “The steaks look great, though.”

Shaw nodded and smiled, and was soon cutting into the juicy flesh on her plate, taking in its spicy aroma, anticipating the warm sensory rush she'd get once it was in her mouth, on her tongue. It was the only thing she could do to take her mind off the woman sitting across from her, who was no longer the one she remembered, the one she'd loved.

* * *

When they left the restaurant and walked outside into the cold night air, Fusco was waiting for them in his car, ready to give them a lift to the park. He politely opened the door for Root and was rewarded with a warm smile from her and a scowl from Shaw.

“What's wrong?” he asked, getting back behind the wheel. “You said to pick you up here and take you and Root to the park.”

“Never mind, Lionel,” Shaw replied. “Just drive.”

Fusco pulled away from the curb and headed towards the park, looking at Root in the rear-view mirror. She smiled back. She sure was smiling a lot, he thought. Just like the old days, except without all the mind-fucking repartee.

“So that _is_ my name,” she said. “I figured as much.”

“What's that?” Fusco asked, while Shaw glowered silently.

“Root,” she replied. “You just called me Root.”

“Oh, right,” he said, turning to look at Shaw. “Didn't you tell her?”

“No, I wanted her to remember on her own,” she replied, looking into the park. “Pull up over there on the left-hand side.”

“What a funny name,” Root continued, as Fusco maneuvered the car into place. “It sounds like it has some kind of hidden meaning. Is it my real name?”

“Define real,” Fusco muttered, getting out. He was beginning to wonder if they'd somehow ended up in Bizarro world, if not the Twilight Zone.

He went to reach for the door handle, but Shaw was already jumping out and ushering Root from the back seat. Shrugging, the detective followed the two of them into a stand of trees in the park. It was the place where Root had found Shaw after she'd escaped from Samaritan and returned to New York. The park was dark and deserted, and Root seemed uneasy about venturing too far in.

“Don't worry,” said Fusco, reaching out to gently take Root's elbow. “We're here with you.”

“Do you recognize this place?” Shaw asked, watching for Root's reaction.

“Is this where I was attacked?” Root asked her. “Did they find me here?”

“No,” Shaw said, shaking her head.. “I wouldn't take you there ...”

“Wait,” Root said, suddenly stopping. “I think I do remember this place.”

She looked at Shaw for a moment in wonder.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes, I was here... With you.”

Shaw swallowed and held her breath. Could Root actually be remembering the moment they were reunited, months ago? It was cold and dark, just like tonight. Root looked around, then back at Shaw again, her eyes locking with those of the petite, wiry woman who stood just a few feet away from her. Root took a step towards her and reached out.

“Sameen,” she said.

Shaw didn't answer but she lifted her head and held Root's gaze as Fusco moved away quietly to give them some space. Root's hand was in Shaw's and she moved closer, so close that their bodies were almost touching. Shaw waited silently until Root spoke again.

“Were we in love?” she asked.

Shaw could barely move. Or speak, But somehow, she found the words that were buried deep inside her, and a way to make them come out.

  
“You could say that,” she answered softly.

They stood there like that for a moment, holding hands, staring at each other. Then Root shivered and Shaw felt bad for making her come out there, in the dark, in a coat that wasn't really warm enough.

“Let's go back home,” she said, releasing Root's hand. “We can talk more later, when you feel like it.”

Root nodded and they both walked back to the road, where Fusco was waiting for them, leaning over to open the car door.

* * *

The rain pelted down on the roof of the carriage as it rattled through the streets, going faster than it probably should have been going. Shaw peered through the open window at the scene outside. It was night time and the streets were virtually deserted. This place was creepy enough at the best of times, but late at night, it gave you chills. And Shaw was generally not the type who got chills.

As the carriage neared the house in question, Shaw grabbed her umbrella and used its heavy handle to rap on the front panel, so that the driver would hear.

“Stop here!” she called out to him, and the carriage was brought to a stop just before the front door, where Shaw climbed out, carrying her doctor's bag and the opened umbrella.

The rain was practically torrential, and Shaw could hear thunder approaching in the distance as well. Of course, it was a dark and stormy night. Why wouldn't it be, considering the work that she feared would be awaiting her. She rang the doorbell and it was answered within a minute by the housekeeper, who looked even more worried than she had been the last time Shaw had visited.

“How is she now?” Shaw asked, handing the older woman the wet umbrella before removing her hat and outer cloak.

“Much worse, doctor,” the woman replied. She led Shaw inside and up the long staircase to the second floor.

The young woman's bedroom was at the end of the hall. In the dim glow of the candlelight, Shaw could see several people, including the girl's parents, gathered around the bed, where the girl was lying, deathly pale and barely breathing.

“Doctor Shaw!” the father called out immediately upon seeing her. “Thank God you've come. She's slipping away.”

Shaw went to the girl's bed and felt her forehead. It was burning with fever. The doctor then lifted the bed sheets and reached for the girl's hand. It was icy cold. The doctor shook her head and frowned. She'd seen this bizarre combination of symptoms before. But still, each time, it was enough to send a tingle down her spine. Shaw leaned forward for a closer look at the girl's neck. Yes, there they were. Two small puncture wounds. She stood up and looked around the room at those gathered.

“This girl has fallen victim to a terrible, evil predator,” Shaw intoned gravely. “We may have a chance to save her, but only if you all follow my instructions, without question.”

“Of course we will,” the girl's distraught father replied. “Just tell us what to do.”

Shaw gave the family strict orders to keep all the windows and doors locked and to make sure plenty of garlic cloves were placed around the girl's bed. Then she went downstairs and directed one of the servants to take an urgent message to her colleague, Professor Harold Van Loon, at his home.

“Tell him his suspicions were correct,” she said. “I'll meet him at midnight at the appointed place.”

Her hat, cloak and umbrella were quickly brought to hand and Shaw was soon climbing back into her carriage. Once inside, she opened her bag and took out the items she knew would be needed: a rope, a long surgical knife and a pistol. Shaw set to the task of carefully loading the gun, then concealing it inside her topcoat, in a special holster close to her chest. She wanted to be able to feel the hard metal next to her body, so she knew it would be there when she needed it. The knife was wrapped in a large handkerchief and placed in her coat pocket. It would be her backup piece.

About an hour later, Shaw's carriage pulled up outside the planetarium. She wasn't sure if the man who ran it -- a man named Greer -- would be there tonight. But if he was, she and Van Loon would be ready for him. The rain was still falling, but it was more of drizzle now, so Shaw left her umbrella inside the carriage and dismissed the driver.

As the vehicle rattled away, the doctor hurried over to the tall, imposing oak door of the building. She tried the handle but it was locked. A sign on the door informed her that the planetarium was now closed and would not be opening until the following afternoon.

Shaw cursed out loud and despite the rain that was lightly pelting her, took a step back to look upwards at the building.

“I'm afraid there are no windows on this side,” a voice called out from behind her. Shaw wheeled around, one hand in the pocket with the knife.

“Harold!” she whispered. “Where'd you come from?”

“I've been waiting out here for a while,” he replied. “Greer's inside, with whatever abomination he's been working on in there. I think it's some kind of machine.”

“He's a vampire!” Shaw hissed. “Who cares about a damn machine?”

Van Loon bit his lower lip and took a breath. “We are dealing with a very clever, very dangerous foe,” he replied. “I've called in a friend to help us.”

“A friend?” marveled Shaw. “I hope it's someone we can trust. This is not a mission for the fainthearted, Harold.”

“Yes, I understand that, Doctor Shaw,” he replied. “I can assure you, this friend is entirely capable and trustworthy, if perhaps something of a wild card.”

“Whatever,” Shaw said impatiently, heading to the far side of the building whilst uncoiling a length of rope, which she proceeded to throw upwards until it caught on a sturdy outcropping. By the time the professor caught up to her again, she was braced against the wall and climbing up rather nimbly.

“Shaw, be careful!” Van Loon called out. “Greer's got his men all around the building and they won't hesitate to--”

The sound of a gun's hammer clicking into position stopped the professor in mid sentence. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Turn around, quite slowly,” a clipped British accent commanded. “Hands up if you don't mind.”

Van Loon turned around to see Greer's henchman Lambert standing several feet away. His pistol was pointed upwards to where Shaw had paused, halfway up the wall, trying to keep her grip on the rope while reaching inside her long overcoat.

“Don't you move either, Doctor Shaw,” Lambert called to her. “I'll shoot you first, then your learned friend here. And I won't hesitate, believe me.”

“We do believe you,” replied Van Loon calmly, as Shaw, suspended on the wall directly above him, tried reach her gun without letting go of the rope.

“However, our friend standing behind you doesn't think you're serious,” the bespectacled professor continued.

“Your friend?” Lambert laughed derisively. “Did you really think I'd fall for such an obvious trick. What friend, exactly, would that be?”

Two shots rang out just then, and Lambert went down in a heap, just as Shaw released her rope and slid down, half-jumping and half-falling the last few feet to the ground. Van Loon reached out to help Shaw to her feet, then both of them turned to face the shooter, who was dressed in a long black riding coat, an embroidered waistcoat and long, straight trousers over pointed boots. A crisp, white linen shirt peeked out from below the coat, accented with a western colonel's tie. Above that was a woman's face, smiling, and above that a wide-brimmed hat.

The woman, who was quite tall, held ivory handled silver pistols, one in each hand, which she twirled around her fingers before deftly sliding them into twin holsters slung low on her hips. Then, she tossed her head, throwing her long hair back away from her face.

“Evening folks,” the grinning gunslinger greeted them with a wink. “You can call me--”

“Seriously?” cried Shaw, ripping off her virtual reality headset and jumping up from the recliner where she'd been lying.

“What, don't you like it?” Spinner replied, looking confused and more than a little offended. “Come on, Shaw, she's hot as hell. Not everyone can pull off that Texan thing, but those clothes, the hat, the dual pistols...”

Shaw leaped towards him and grabbed the front of his shirt.

“This is not what I want and you know it,” she snarled. “These simulations are supposed to be for my amusement, not yours.”

“Look, I'm sorry,” Spinner said, trying to pry Shaw's hands off him. “I'm doing my best here. I really thought you'd like it.”

Shaw let go of him and walked back to the recliner, sitting dejectedly on the edge of it and letting her head drop into her hands.

“Look, if you don't like Root being the hero, I can rewrite it so that you are the one rescuing her and saving the day,” Spinner said. “You can shoot Lambert, just like you did in real life. I always wished I could have been there when that happened, you know. The guy was such an insufferable jerk.”

Shaw looked up at him for a moment, then shook her head and slipped off the chair.

“Wait!” he said, following her out of the room. “You didn't get to the best part, when you drive the stake into Greer. There is gonna be so much blood.”

“Never mind,” Shaw said. “Maybe this whole thing was just a bad idea.”

“No it's not,” Spinner said quickly, trying to keep up with Shaw as she headed for the door. “I can make it work, I promise. Just give me another shot, OK?”

Shaw paused with one hand on the door and stared at Spinner, who suddenly felt self conscious. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his feet. He felt bad for Shaw. But he felt even worse for himself, since he could see his livelihood circling the drain.

“I'll work all weekend,” he said. “I can do better.”

Shaw's emotionless expression showed just how uninterested she was in his entreaties.

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Um, yeah,” he replied, a tiny smile tugging at his lips. “Can I get some extra money for takeout tonight? I'm getting a little tired of spaghetti.”

The door opened and closed so quickly, his eyes barely registered the sight of Shaw disappearing through it, a blur of black.


	5. Steppingstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obligatory scene of Root cooking Shaw a yummy dinner. Some other kinds of hunger are satisfied. The Machine makes an obscure “Blade Runner” reference. Shaw gets the reference because Shaw is awesome.

* * *

“I'm guessing you heard all that,” Shaw addressed the Machine as she walked up the busy sidewalk toward the safe house.

“Heard and saw,” said The Machine. “I do think the simulations are much better now that I've upgraded the graphics. The colors are quite vivid, don't you agree?”

Shaw couldn't tell if The Machine was being serious or just trying to calm her rattled nerves by changing the subject. If that was the case, it wasn't working.

“Vampires, zombies ...” Shaw muttered as she walked. “I guess werewolves are next. He's obviously watching too much television and playing too many games.”

“Maybe,” said The Machine. “But you know what they say. Writing is re-writing. He just needs to rework a few things.”

“It's not just a matter of tweaking something here or there,” Shaw replied, exasperated. “He hasn't got an original idea in his head!”

She walked on for a while in silence before The Machine spoke again.

“Ms. Shaw, if I may make a suggestion,” the voice said politely. “There may be another way to tackle this problem.”

“I'm listening.”

“I've been working on a vastly improved therapeutic simulation program,” The Machine said. “It uses a synthetic version of Spinner's basic composition style, along with some other inputs.”

“What kind of inputs?” Shaw asked suspiciously.

“Things like a self-updating encyclopedia, a program that tracks speech patterns and a suite of visual reference materials,” The Machine said.

“OK, what do you mean by that -- visual reference materials?” Shaw asked.

“Recorded images,” said The Machine, as Shaw passed by a camera mounted on a light pole.

“You mean videos and photos?” she asked, staring straight at the camera.

“Yes,” said The Machine. “Images of you and Root and whoever else may be in the simulation.”

“Any other inputs?” Shaw asked.

The Machine responded with a brief “Ahem” that sounded so much like Finch, it was almost spooky. Shaw had to keep reminding herself that it wasn't actually Harold she was talking to. It was his child. Which was also pretty spooky, when she thought about it that way.

“The other inputs could include memories, dreams or fantasies,” The Machine explained.

“Yours or mine?”

“I don't dream,” The Machine replied dryly. “Not even about electric sheep. But I do have a memory, as you know.”

Shaw shook her head and resumed walking.

“So the dream and fantasy inputs would come from me,” she said.

“Yes, Ms. Shaw,” The Machine said. “And some of your memories as well. Such personal inputs would make the simulation extremely realistic and visceral.”

“And how would you get them?” Shaw asked. “I'm assuming I don't just tell you all my fantasies.”

“No,” The Machine said. “They'd be collected through an implant in your--”

“No!” Shaw said fiercely. “You are not putting one of those things in my brain. No way.”

“It would make the experience so much richer, Ms. Shaw,” The Machine said. “If you could just give me the chance to explain--”

“Harold.”

The Machine fell silent as Shaw neared another camera and gave it a steely gaze. The rest of her walk home passed in silence. When she got to the safe house, the first thing she noticed was that Root had the music turned up again. This time it was the cheerful horns of Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass that greeted her as she walked in the door.

The second thing Shaw noticed was an intoxicating aroma wafting from the kitchen, where it seemed Root had been busy for a while.

“Mmm. What's that smell?” Shaw asked, walking into the kitchen.

“Braised ribs and noodles romanoff,” Root replied, looking up from the counter, where she was snapping the ends off some green beans. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Shaw lifted an eyebrow and nodded in approval.

“Surprised doesn't cover it,” she said. “I didn't know you could cook like this. Where'd you get the recipe for noodles romanoff?”

“From the internet,” Root smiled back. “Luckily you have lots of cheese, butter and cream in your fridge. Quite the dairy lover, I guess.”

“Go cow or go home,” Shaw replied. “So you figured out how to use the laptop after all.”

“It turned out to be pretty easy,” Root said. “Once I figured out how to turn it on. The rest of it was pretty intuitive.”

She handed Shaw a bottle of red wine and two glasses, and Shaw went into the dining room and began setting the table for the two of them.

“It was nice of you to go to all this trouble,” she called to Root in the kitchen. “But you don't need to cook for me.”

“I know,” said Root. “I just wanted to do something nice, to thank you for letting me stay here. And for trying to help me.”

A few minutes later, Root came out with the plates and Shaw poured them each a glass of wine. The meal passed mostly in silence, except for Shaw's murmurs of appreciation. The dinner was delicious. After she finished eating, Shaw poured herself another glass of wine and leaned back in her chair.

“What about Lionel?” she asked. “He's been helping you. Are you doing something nice for him too?”

“Lionel?” asked Root. “What do you mean?”

“It just seems like you are kind of smitten with him, that's all.”

“Smitten? With Lionel?” Root exclaimed.

Shaw just stared back at her across the table and took another sip of her wine. A smile began to creep slowly across Root's face.

“Don't worry Shaw,” she said. “I lost my memory, not my mind.”

Shaw didn't reply, but Root stood up and began clearing the dishes and taking them into the kitchen. Shaw got up and helped Root put the dishes in the dishwasher, then opened the sliding door and stepped out onto the terrace. She was quietly staring at the soft shape of the moon in the evening sky when Root joined her a few minutes later.

“I'm sorry,” Shaw said. “I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. That was a really nice dinner.”

“I'm glad you liked it,” Root said, before looking down and biting her lip. After a few seconds, she looked up at Shaw once again.

“I do like Lionel,” she said. “He's a very kind man. And his name was the first one I remembered. But he's not really my type.”

“He cares about you,” said Shaw. “So do I.”

Their eyes met. For a moment, Shaw wanted to lean forward and brush her lips against Root's, to reach out and touch her face, to feel that long body in her arms. She almost went ahead and did it, knowing that if they kissed even once, that would be it. She'd have to take Root to her bed and reclaim every part of her. Because she still loved her, in spite of everything.

But Root dropped her eyes and moved back a little, as though she knew what Shaw was thinking and didn't want it, didn't want to go there.

Shaw turned her head and stared back out at the night. Maybe The Machine was right. Maybe the only way she'd ever have Root back again would be to allow an implant in her brain, to record her dreams, her desires. To settle for a simulation.

They stood quietly for a moment. Then Root spoke again.

“You said something about a machine the other day. But then you said it was a computer. Are you talking about the laptop?”

Shaw shook her head and looked away. But of course, her dismissive gesture did nothing to discourage Root's curiosity.

“The laptop has some cool programs on it,” Root pressed ahead, undaunted. “Did I write them?”

“Some of them were your creations,” said Shaw. “Some were written by a man named Harold Finch.”

“Finch,” repeated Root. “Is he the one who designed The Machine?”

Shaw turned suddenly to look at Root, who was smiling at her. Smiling that way. The way Root smiled, knowing. Was she fucking with her already?

“How did you figure that out?” Shaw asked.

“It's just the way the pieces fit together,” said Root. “It makes sense.”

Shaw took a deep breath. She needed another glass of wine, but that meant she'd be opening another bottle. She went inside to find one. When she returned to the terrace, Root was sitting in one of the chairs. Shaw re-filled Root's glass and her own, then put the bottle on the little table between them.

“I wish I could tell you more about Harold and The Machine,” Shaw said. “I'm not much of a computer person. He built The Machine for the government so it could detect acts of terror before they happened. But it also uncovered threats of violent crimes affecting ordinary people. So there were two streams – relevant and irrelevant threats.”

“And Finch would send you and Lionel to try and stop the ones the government deemed irrelevant, right?” Root asked.

“There were other people on the team as well,” Shaw replied. “But yeah, that's basically it in a nutshell.”

She took another long sip of her wine and looked out across the darkened cityscape. Eventually, she'd have to tell Root about their lives before they joined the team. About how Shaw had been a covert government assassin and Root had been a black-hat hacker and killer-for-hire. She turned to look at Root for a second. On second thought, she probably didn't have to tell Root that she'd once been a brilliant hacker. It seemed she was already rediscovering her digital talents and her learning curve was likely an exponential one.

“So I ended up on the irrelevant list, and that's why you came to the hospital to find me,” Root said.

“Yes,” said Shaw. “You were in danger there.”

“From Dave and Frank?” Root asked. “Were they the people who wanted to keep me quiet?”

“Yes,” answered Shaw, now quite impressed. “You put that together pretty quickly.”

“Like I said, the pieces fit,” Root replied. “They seemed to be watching me more than the other patients. And they kept asking me strange questions, like did I remember this, or that.”

Shaw just nodded, not wanting to fill in too many blanks. It would be better if Root filled them in herself. If she remembered.

“So who are they were working for?” Root asked, frowning.

“I have a few ideas,” Shaw said. “Lionel and I are looking into it, trying to track them down, find out who they were in contact with.”

Now it was Root's turn to nod. Then the two of them just sat in silence, staring out into the night.

“Why do you keep rubbing your arm there?” Root said after a while. She was looking at the place near Shaw's wrist where the RFID had been inserted the night they slipped into a Decima facility.

Shaw looked down to the discoloration on her skin. She didn't even realize that she'd been touching the scar left by the chip's removal. She pulled her hand away self-consciously.

“It's nothing,” she said.

That night, Shaw lay awake in bed for a long while before falling asleep. Her hand kept returning to the spot where the chip had been inserted just under the skin. It hadn't been left in there for more than an hour or two and it was long gone now. But still, she couldn't help caressing the spot, trying to make the feeling of something foreign and invasive inside her body go away. Shaw focused her mind as her fingertips traced long strokes on the inside of her forearm. And lying there, she forced herself to remember every precious detail of that night. It was all she could do before slipping into that murky space between awake and dreaming.

She was in the cab of the cube van, driving, with Root right next to her in the passenger seat. Shaw's forearm kept touching the wheel, pressing against where the chip was, making it itchy, making her want to scratch it.

“Don't pick at it,” Root's voice admonished her. “You'll make it bleed.”

“Are you sure they can't track us with these?” Shaw was frowning, checking the mirrors for any suspicious vehicles that might be following their van as it made its way along the highway.

She returned her gaze to the road and, ignoring Root's instructions, took her hand off the wheel and began rubbing her wrist again. The RFID chip was just below the top layers of skin, protruding like an ugly, rectangular wart. Shaw scratched at it, hard.

“Stop it,” Root scolded. “It can only be read if it's directly below a scanner. It barely worked the first time, remember?”

Shaw huffed and bit her lower lip. She wanted the damn thing out regardless. She'd only agreed to let Root implant it because they had to get into that Decima facility to install the altered servers. But that mission was over now and damn it, Shaw couldn't stand the thought of any hardware inside her. Root, by way of contrast, seemed nonplussed. She already had an implant in her ear, didn't she? She was technically a cyborg and one more implant didn't bother her, even if it was a Decima chip. Shaw scratched again.

“It'll get infected,” Root said.

“Were you a doctor?” Shaw asked with a hint of annoyance. Root just smiled and raised an eyebrow at her before looking out the window.

“Whatever,” Shaw said through gritted teeth. “It must be nice to be right all the time.”

“It's wonderful,” Root replied, still smiling. “We're going to ditch the van up here in this parking lot.”

Shaw pulled up where Root directed her to park and they switched to a new vehicle. Root reached under the front seat and pulled out a first aid kit.

“We need to lay low until morning,” Root was saying as she rummaged through the kit. “How do you feel about a motel?”

“Suits me fine,” Shaw replied. “We'll have to hit a convenience store first, though. Need a few small items.”

Soon, they were safely ensconced in a simple motel room. Shaw wasted no time in stripping down to her tank top and heading for the bathroom. Root followed with the first aid kit.

“I'll do it,” Shaw told her, opening the box and finding the rubbing alcohol and cotton swabs. “We might need to close up with a stitch or two, just to be safe.”

Root made no reply as Shaw opened a package of razor blades, wiped one of them with the rubbing alcohol and set about removing the RFID from her own arm. There was blood, more than Root had expected, but Shaw finished quickly and then turned to Root.

“Your turn,” Shaw said.

“Let me stick a bandage on your arm, at least,” Root said, moving closer to take Shaw's hand.

Shaw felt Root brush against her, heard her sigh softly, felt her warm breath on her neck. Her first impulse was to pull her arm away. She could tell from glancing at the mirror that Root's gaze was lingering on the round muscles of her arms and shoulders. It wasn't the first time. Root had made no secret of her admiration for Shaw's toned physique. Root wanted her. And she'd already had her wish, at least twice. Shaw's mind drifted back to their escapade in Alaska, after Root swept her away on that motorcycle. Well, that trip had been fun ...

“There,” Root was saying, snapping Shaw out of her daydream. “Boo-boo's all fixed now. Kisses.”

Root leaned forward to playfully kiss the bandage, but Shaw yanked her arm away, knitting her dark brows with a frown of irritation. Root just smiled flirtatiously and offered her own forearm.

“Now you do me,” she said.

Shaw took a deep breath and set to work. When they were finished, she grabbed herself a can of beer from the convenience store bag and went over to the bed, where she reclined against a pillow and turned on the TV.

“Just one bed, huh?” Shaw asked, cracking open the beer.

“I guess we'll have to share,” said Root, nodding toward Shaw's feet. “Boots.”

“Nag.”

“Leave them on then,” said Root, pulling off her own boots while sitting on the other side of the bed.

Shaw took a long sip of beer and then looked over at Root, watching her slowly undress until she was down to her bra and bikini briefs. Damn. Shaw took another drink, then leaned over and placed the beer can on the nightstand as Root pulled back the sheets on her side and got into the bed.

“Damn,” Shaw cursed again, this time out loud, before kicking off her boots and rolling over so that her body was on top of Root's.

Shaw wanted to kiss her, but she knew Root wanted it too, so she decided to make her wait, letting the weight of her body settle onto the tall, slim woman beneath her. She knew that would make Root horny as hell. She could already hear it happening in the huskiness of her breathing. Her mouth was slightly open and her lips were wet and her face, so close to Shaw's, was becoming flushed and warm.

“That was incredibly stupid, going into that Decima fortress alone,” Shaw said, her own mouth barely touching Root's, teasing her lower lip, then pulling away again.

Root reached up to touch Shaw's face, but Shaw grabbed her wrists and forced them down onto the bed, pinning her there.

“You're lucky I found you,” Shaw said, moving back when Root tried to kiss her. “You could have been killed.”

“You're right,” Root whispered. “I _am_ lucky you found me.”

Shaw leaned in and rubbed her nose against Root's, nuzzling her as she writhed underneath her and enjoying the gentle, moaning sounds her lover was making. Then, feeling her own desire building, almost to the point of real pain, Shaw let go of Root's hands and gave in to their struggle, letting her mouth meet Root's in a long, passionate kiss.

She could feel Root's hands tangling in her hair, then moving downwards along the muscles of her neck and torso, until one of them came to rest in the small of her back and the other slipped between her legs. Shaw was still wearing her jeans, but that just added to the friction as Root began moving her hand, so very slowly, back and forth.

Shaw began moving as well, slowly at first, bracing herself against the bed with her arms and lifting her upper body to let Root do most of the work. It didn't take long for Shaw to feel the first stirrings of pleasure, and she began to move her hips, grinding into Root, making that sound in her throat as she got closer and closer to orgasm. Root was whispering in that low, husky voice that drove Shaw mad and they both kept moving together rhythmically as Shaw began to moan softly, her hips moving faster, pressing harder, one sinewed hand braced on the headboard, the other grasping Root's arm, guiding its motion. She came quickly, which surprised her, and hard, which didn't. This tension between them had been building for a long time and Shaw knew the release would be intense when it happened. It was so intense that Shaw cried out, then collapsed on top of Root's long body.

Her arms were around Root and Root's arms were around her and they were lying there together, panting, gasping, exhausted. Shaw moved so that her weight was off Root's body but one arm was still flung across her and Shaw's head rested against the smooth softness of Root's slim torso. After placing several kisses on Root's belly, enjoying the rise and fall of her breath, Shaw began moving downwards, trailing kisses as she went.

When she got to Root's vulva, she was pleased to find it wet and warm and waiting for her, so she spent some time kissing and teasing it before letting her tongue glide in. She could feel Root's fingers in her hair again, but this time they were clawing at her scalp as she plunged in, her tongue licking and thrusting and tasting the sweetness at the core of Root. The gasping noises that reached her ears drove Shaw on and on, until finally she heard Root shudder and climax with a strangled moan.

Shaw moved back up and rested her head against Root's long body. She felt a tender hand stroking her hair, and a mouth kissing her head and she could hear Root making soft noises but she couldn't make out what she was saying. After a while, Shaw realized that Root wasn't actually talking. She was crying.

“What's the matter?” Shaw mumbled.

“Nothing,” came the reply. “Nothing that can't wait until morning. Go to sleep, baby.”

And Shaw was about to ask another question but instead, she drifted off to sleep.

They got up early the next morning and grabbed another vehicle for the ride into Manhattan. That was when Shaw began to understand why Root had been crying. As she slid into the driver's seat, Root got into the back, then leaned forward to pass Shaw a thick manila envelope.

“What's this?” Shaw asked.

“It's your new identity,” Root explained. “Everything you'll need is in there. ID, keys for a vehicle and a safe deposit box, plus some cash. We won't be seeing each other again for a while. Maybe forever.”

“What?” Shaw looked around at her. “Why can't we see each other?”

“Because of Samaritan,” Root replied. “We have to hide now. All of us. We can't do anything that will connect us, because Samaritan will notice the pattern and then we'll all be dead.”

“What about The Machine?” asked Shaw. “Will you still be talking to her?”

“Not in the way I have been,” said Root. “Things are going to be much different between us now.”

They drove on and Root made a phone call to Finch from inside the vehicle, then instructed Shaw on where to drop her off.

“Goodbye, Sameen,” Root said, before getting out. “Stay safe.”

Then she reached for something under the passenger seat and handed it up to Shaw. It was a black knitted watchman's cap.

“Got you a present,” she said with a smile. Then she was gone.

Shaw reached over for the manila envelope and placed it on her lap. Sure enough, it had several documents inside, along with a hand-written note and some keys. Shaw turned the envelope over again, and looked at the front of it. There was no name on it. Just a tiny heart drawn in blue ink, with an arrow through it.

* * *

Coffee was already made when Shaw got up the next morning, and Root was sitting at the counter, tapping away on the laptop.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said cheerfully, upon seeing Shaw enter the kitchen.

“It's 8 a.m.,” Shaw grumbled. “It's not late.”

“I've been up since six,” Root replied with a smile. “I'm working on some code.”

Shaw poured herself a mug of coffee and walked over to where Root was working. On her screen was what appeared to be a jumble of random color-coded words, numbers and punctuation marks.

“What is it?” asked Shaw.

“Just a simple program,” Root replied. “It will help me create a sketch of our friends Frank and Dave, so that you and Lionel will have more to go on. The two of them must be out there somewhere, looking for us.”

“So it will be like a composite sketch?” asked Shaw.

“Something like that,” answered Root. “I'm not much good at drawing, but I can make a program that puts together the pieces I need, just like a sketch artist would do. Then I can create their faces as digital images.”

“Hmm,” said Shaw. “That would help us. I noticed Dave and Frank were pretty good at avoiding the cameras. Most of the images we got were from a distance or just in profile.”

“Well, I saw quite a bit of them both,” said Root. “I'm pretty sure I can flesh them out. Dave has pale blue eyes and a dimple in his chin. Frank's eyes are brown.”

Shaw studied Root for a moment, unsure if her early-rising roommate was ready for more information. But she noticed Root seemed more confident and capable with each passing day. She probably wouldn't want to be coddled, especially by Shaw. What the hell. She might as well fill Root in on the fate of one fake orderly.

“You only need to sketch Dave,” Shaw told her. “Frank's dead.”

“What?” Root stopped working and looked up.

“Lionel and I smoked him out the other day,” Shaw explained. “He got away before we could get any intel from him. Then he ran in front of a bus.”

Root stared at her for a moment, frowning.

“Splat,” said Shaw, rather unnecessarily. Root looked down at the computer screen and Shaw took another sip of her coffee.

“So he was willing to die rather then tell you who is behind the threat against me,” Root said after a while. “That is not comforting.”

Shaw was about to say something else, but Root was already back to her screen, engrossed in the task of coding. Shaw picked up Root's coffee mug and refilled it for her before topping up her own and heading to the shower. She wanted to talk to The Machine again, but not in front of Root. Not yet anyway.

She left Root with her project and headed to the park to scout for Dave with the pale blue eyes and dimpled chin. She talked to The Machine on the way.

“The way Frank died was exactly the way the Decima agents were escaping us, remember?” Shaw asked.

“Yes, I do recall that nasty business,” The Machine said. “Greer and his Decima cohorts were ensuring the loyalty of their agents by issuing generous life insurance policies, to be paid to their families if they died on the job.”

“So that gives us another possible connection to Decima,” Shaw said. “Except that Decima doesn't exist anymore.”

“I've heard no other noise or chatter,” The Machine said. “Seems like they've invoked a kind of radio silence, for now. Maybe Ms. Groves' sketch program will come in handy.”

“We'll see,” said Shaw, who had reached the park and sat down on a bench.

“Was there something else, Ms. Shaw?” The Machine asked in its Finch voice.

Shaw just shook her head. It was amazing how well the The Machine could read her these days. Better than Finch or Reese ever could. Maybe even better than Root could.

“Ahem,” The Machine began carefully. “I know you are worried about Ms. Groves. But I can assure you that she is adjusting quite well to her new surroundings.”

“Yeah, getting her out of that hospital has worked wonders,” Shaw said, looking out at the park and the various people passing by.

“I would suggest that there's something else that has helped her immensely, Ms. Shaw.”

“What's that? The surf music? I'm not sure I'd agree,” Shaw said dryly, and she could hear The Machine chuckling in response.

“No,” the voice said. “Not the surf music, although I do share her appreciation of Brian Wilson. No, I mean you. Being around you. It's made her feel safe.”

“Wait,” Shaw said, looking up at the nearest camera, mounted on a light pole. “Have you been in contact with her?”

“Yes. We've been talking.”

“When did this start?” Shaw frowned. She had planned to introduce Root to The Machine at some point, but now it was out of her hands.

“Very recently.”

Shaw sighed and folded her arms in front of her. She realized it was inevitable that Root would find her way to The Machine again. Now, Pandora's Box was open.

“Ahem.”

“Yes, Harold.”

“I understand that this might be frustrating for you, but I want to assure you that things will work out for the best,” The Machine said. “Remember your trip to the library?”

“Patience and Fortitude,” Shaw responded.

“Patience and Fortitude,” said The Machine.


	6. Man in the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a few weeks later. Let's catch up with Spinner and a couple of minor characters who have been lurking in the background. Yes, let's do that. Don't worry. Root and Shaw are in this chapter as well.

* * *

It was mid-morning in Manhattan and the early springtime sun hadn't yet warmed the water in the rooftop pool. But that didn't stop Spinner from slipping in and taking a few easy strokes, before flipping over to float on his back, staring up at the perfect blue sky.

He'd loved swimming as a youth. That feeling of gliding, of having so little resistance as his body sliced through the water, pulling itself along with the simplest locomotion of churning arms and kicking legs. He'd been on the swim team in high school, specializing in the front crawl. The best part was when he'd get to the wall and he'd know, he'd just know exactly when to flip over and push off hard with his feet. Then he'd glide, glide, then lift his head up and then his arms, and then he'd reach out and start plowing through the water again.

Now, he just liked to float. Looking up at the sky. He'd hit the wall a long time ago without even seeing it coming. So now, what was there to do but just keep still and float, barely moving, watching the clouds move above him and the noisy city.

When Spinner finally got out of the pool and grabbed his towel, he noticed his cellphone had a message. It was probably Shaw again, wondering if he'd worked up a new story for her. He was not looking forward to another visit from the compact Persian sociopath. She was growing impatient with his lack of output and he was running out of excuses. Soon, he'd be out of a job again and out of this tony condo. Then what?

He picked up the phone and checked the screen. It wasn't Shaw after all. It was Michel, calling from home. He played the voicemail, as eager for the familiar sound of Michel's soft accent as for the message it brought.

“Allo Spencer,” came the lilting voice. “Your mother wanted to call but she is not well again.”

There was a pause, and Spinner could hear Michel taking a drag of his cigarette before continuing.

“She keeps saying she hopes you will come home. She misses you.”

There was another pause.

“So do I,” he said. “Au revoir, mon ami.”

The message ended and Spinner put down the phone while he toweled off. He'd known Michel for so many years. Ever since the stocky, curly-haired man had moved in with Spinner and his mom when Spinner was just a boy. He'd always thought of Michel as a mentor as well as a father figure, a wise elder who knew the ways of the world. Now he also represented the life Spinner had left behind. The place he'd wanted to leave.

He was pondering all of this when the calm tranquility of the rooftop was shattered by loud voices. The interlopers were a young couple and their friend, who'd brought up some drinks and a Bluetooth speaker to play music while they swam. Spinner gathered his things and made his way to the stairway.

“Hey, is the water nice and warm?” asked the young man as Spinner walked by.

Spinner smiled back and shook his head.

“Not at all.”

* * *

“Seen this guy?” Fusco was holding up a printed sheet of Dave's composite image, created by Root's sketching program.

The shopkeeper shook his head. Fusco exited the store and got into his car, where Shaw was waiting.

“Nobody has seen him,” Fusco said. “It's like he's gone to ground.”

“Maybe,” said Shaw. “But he's still out there, somewhere, along with whoever hired him. And Root's not safe until we find them and end this threat.”

“At least we can keep her protected,” Fusco said. “The safe house is a fortress.”

“Yeah, but she's getting antsy about being cooped up there,” said Shaw. “She's anxious to get her cochlear implant done, too. We'll have to set up an appointment with a specialist for that.”

“I can take her,” Fusco said.

“That'd be great Lionel,” Shaw said, as Fusco pulled away from the curb.

“Is she going to be all right getting that implant done so soon?” Fusco asked. “No offense or anything, Shaw, but that ear looks like hell.”

“The swelling's gone from her initial surgery,” Shaw said. “So the tissue should have recovered enough for the small incision they'll need to make. It's probably better to have it done now, before too much scar tissue builds up.”

“If you say so, doc,” Fusco said. “You're the medic in this gang. I just can't imagine what she's gone through, physically. I mean I got knifed and that was bad enough.”

Shaw noticed Fusco shake visibly when he mentioned being stabbed by Jeffrey Blackwell. It had been months since that happened. Just another brush with death. And then, another Samaritan agent neutralized. Shaw couldn't help smiling when she remembered plugging Blackwell. Twice, in the heart. For Root.

“It doesn't seem to bother her that much, the physical part,” Shaw told Fusco. “It's the lack of mental stimulation she gets twitchy about. She wants to be able to hear The Machine, up close and personal.”

“Just like the old days, huh?” Fusco asked.

“Not quite,” Shaw said, looking out the window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk.

She scanned the crowd quickly. There was no sign of Dave. Not here, not uptown, not in the park, nowhere. Fusco had made inquiries at the hospital as well but that turned out to be a dead end, with the orderlies' personnel files having disappeared into thin air.

Both Dave and Frank, officially, did not exist. And that had caused a bureaucratic headache for Fusco, who found himself saddled with a stack of paperwork for a John Doe who was run over by a bus while wearing the detective's handcuffs. Try to explain that mess to a demanding captain who's already on your ass.

“There must be a way to find this mook,” Fusco said.

“We'll find him,” said Shaw.

Fusco looked over at Shaw. Her jaw was set, her dark eyes brooding. He nodded and returned his own eyes to the road. When Shaw made up her mind to find someone, they'd have to be in outer space to outrun her. Yeah, this Dave guy was toast.

* * *

The rustling in the bushes caught Shaw's attention immediately. She turned and looked in the direction of the noise. More rustling. The branches of the bush were shaking vigorously now.

“Look. He's in there,” she told Root, who was standing next to her with a big stick in her hand.

Root laughed and called out, while Shaw whistled. The bushes stopped moving, just for a second, then Bear bolted out towards them.

“Here boy,” called Root, flinging the stick, while Bear skidded for a moment, changed direction, then took off after the stick.

“I don't know who is getting more exercise -- you or the dog,” said Shaw, watching Bear snap up the stick.

“I'm just happy to be outside for a change,” answered Root. “Fresh air makes all the difference.”

She was wearing a bandage again, this time to cover the incision from the cochlear implant. Shaw noticed Root seemed much more alert and energized since having the procedure, which Root referred to as an “upgrade.”

They began walking again, with Bear returning the stick after each throw. It was getting close to dusk and they'd have to head back home soon, but Shaw was just as eager as her companions to stretch out their time in the park. She'd agreed to let Root come with her on the evening walk with Bear, on the condition that they stick close together. So far, there had been no issues. But Shaw didn't want to let her guard down, just in case.

“Come on, let's head back,” she said after a while, then shouted a brisk command to Bear.

“It's getting a little chilly,” said Root, pulling a scarf around her head to cover her ear. Shaw dug into her own coat pocket and retrieved a black wool cap.

“Hey, I remember that thing,” Root smiled as Shaw pulled on the cap. “But it looks better like this.”

Shaw almost flinched in surprise as Root stepped forward and reached out towards her face. Root paused with her hand in mid-air, struck by Shaw's expression.

“I'm sorry,” Root said. “May I?”

Shaw nodded and kept still, her heart in her throat as Root gently pushed up one side of the knitted cap, leaving it slightly angled on Shaw's forehead.

“There,” she said, her fingertips lightly brushing against Shaw's cheek as she lowered her hand.

For a moment, they stood there together in silence. Then Shaw reached for Root's other hand and pulled her closer. She felt Root's arms go around her and when she lifted her chin, her mouth met Root's and they shared a tender kiss.

“Um, sorry,” Root said, pulling away after a few seconds. “I don't know why I did that.”

Shaw didn't answer. Bear was barking and jumping up at Root, and Shaw was quick to grab the dog's collar and reattach the leash. She glanced at Root, who was staring back at her, looking troubled and confused.

“It's OK,” Shaw said, calling the dog to heel. “It's my fault. I shouldn't have pulled you in like that.”

Root looked at Shaw, as though she was going to say something else, then looked away again. They walked on in silence for a while before Shaw gathered the nerve to speak.

“I don't want you to feel awkward around me,” she said. “It won't happen again. I promise.”

Root stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I don't feel awkward Shaw,” she said. “I like being with you. I'm just... I don't know if I'm ready for ... you know.”

“It's OK,” Shaw said again. “Forget it.”

But it wasn't OK for Shaw. She wasn't sure how long she'd be able to continue this way. Having the woman she loved so close to her, but still so far away. The attraction was still there. The feelings were there. But it felt like things were tilted, like the hat was tilted, just a tiny bit off the proper equilibrium. Shaw liked things to be settled, balanced, set right. She realized there was a good chance that might not happen.

They walked back toward the safe house, with Bear between them. Root was unusually quiet, so Shaw spoke up.

“I picked up that new laptop for you this afternoon,” she said.

“I was going to ask about that,” Root said. “Thanks.”

“Why do you need two laptops?” Shaw asked. “Is the first one no good?”

“No it's fine,” said Root. “But I need the second one to set up a virtual machine. It's part of the thing I'm working on.”

“The fake website?” Shaw asked.

That was it. Root was off and running, launching into a complicated explanation of her latest project, a website for the non-existent Doctor E.K. Waymon, neuropsychologist. She'd already had Shaw pose for a photograph and she had also worked up a fake bio. It was a very professional-looking site but Root said all of that was child's play. The best part -- the real purpose of the website -- was the honeypot.

As Root explained it, the honeypot could be used to lure a hacker into a trap on the site. Her virtual machine would then allow Root to monitor and track the hacker on an isolated system. She thought Dave, or more likely his employers, might be susceptible to the bait. The Machine was helping her to set it all up.

Shaw only heard a few words here and there: website, hacker, honeypot. She smiled to herself as they walked on, Root's voice pleasantly humming in her ears. If anyone knew how to bait a trap, it was Root. And as for the honey, well ...

* * *

The tall man sat alone in his dimly lit apartment, working on what he liked to call “research.” In fact, his research involving tapping out search inquiries on his tablet, while sitting in a lounge chair that resembled a pod, drinking an herbal beverage.

He wanted to go out and hunt. But since his colleague had been killed just a few weeks earlier, while hunting, the tall man did not wish to follow. He was a cautious, clever hunter -- a survivor.

The tall man's steely, pale blue eyes scanned the screen, then suddenly stopped. There it was, the name he'd been searching for through directory after directory. He tapped a few more times and found himself on a web page announcing a new clinic with a staff of about 10 medical specialists, including one Doctor E.K. Waymon.

He blinked once, then straightened his posture. He studied the small photo of the doctor and reread the information on the website. Yes, that was her all right. So she did exist. It was just a matter of time before he found her and tracked his prey.

He picked up his phone and called the number listed on the website. A pleasant but business-like female voice answered.

“Moore-McCarthy Medical Clinic, may I help you?” came the greeting.

“Yes, I'd like to speak with Doctor Waymon, please,” the man replied. “It's about a patient.”

“Doctor Waymon is not in today,” the voice told him. “Would you like to leave her a message?”

“No, I'd rather speak to Doctor Waymon directly,” said the man. “Do you know when she might be in?”

“She's attending a conference out of town this week,” said the voice. “If you leave a message, I can have her return your call when she returns.”

The man gave Doctor Schaeffer's name and phone number, then hung up. Then he dialed another number on his phone.

“Are you on a burner?” a digitally altered voice asked upon answering.

“Of course,” said the man.

“Go ahead then,” instructed the voice.

“I have a lead on our friend, the doctor,” the man reported. “But the next steps could require your special skill set, if you are up for that.”

“Always,” said the voice. “What's the target?”

“There's a city address where I can do some reconnaissance,” said the man. “But you'll be more interested in the web site.”

“Send me a link. You know how.”

The very second that call ended, another call was being made. It was picked up on the first ring.

“I'm here,” said Shaw.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Shaw,” The Machine greeted her formally. “It seems our honeypot is already attracting some flies.”

* * *

The rough, stony dirt road opened up into a verdant field and Shaw couldn't help urging her mount into a gallop as the castle came into view in the distance. She'd been riding for a very long time and she was looking forward to a hot meal and a nice, warm bath tonight. Her horse could use a rest too. She learned forward and pushed with her thighs, her face almost touching her steed's muscular neck as the wind whipped through the beast's mane and tickled its rider's face. She pulled up just in front of the stables and jumped down, handing the reins to a stable boy who'd run out to meet her. She'd barely had time to pull off her riding gloves when Marco appeared at her side.

“Welcome back, Shaw,” he grinned, greeting her with a handshake and clasping her shoulder in a jovial manner with his free hand. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

“I had to fight off jackals the first night, thieves and cut-throats the next,” she replied. “So yes, very pleasant.”

“She asked for you earlier,” Marco smiled back. “Don't keep her waiting.”

“I just got here,” Shaw replied as they began walking toward the castle's entrance. “Maybe she meant someone else. Maybe she wants you.”

Marco laughed. “I don't think so,” he said with a wink. “Send for my beautiful dark-haired Persian knight. That was the message sent down this morning. Good luck, my friend.”

He walked off, leaving Shaw to head inside and begin the task of climbing the 200 steps in the circular tower to the top-most chambers, where her queen awaited. The returned knight's riding boots clicked smartly on the floor as she walked over and reached for the regal hand extended towards her. The knight then dropped to one knee, gently took the offered hand, and kissed it.

“Your majesty,” she said softly.

“Enough of the medieval foreplay,” replied Root with a smirk, grabbing both of Shaw's hands and pulling her to her feet. “You know what you can call me.”

“Root,” came the whispered response, as Shaw took the taller woman into her arms and kissed her tenderly. Root kissed her back just as sweetly, her hands moving from Shaw's shoulders to her face and then into her hair, where they quickly found the thin ribbon tied around Shaw's ponytail and released it, leaving her long tresses to fall around her shoulders.

“I missed you,” Root said, her forehead touching Shaw's as they nuzzled and kissed again. Shaw murmured her agreement, then stepped back and unfastened the leather straps that held her sword and dagger, placing the weapons on a low table before removing her leather jerkin, doublet and various accoutrements, leaving her in her breeches, boots and a loose white shirt.

“Don't tell me you were worried about me,” she teased, joining Root on a jumble of cushions arranged on a settee on one side of the queen's chambers.

Root had already poured her a goblet of wine and another of water, which Shaw drank gratefully.

“You, my darling, are the one person I don't have to worry about,” Root replied. “Have something to eat and then we'll talk about your journey. But first...”

“First what?” Shaw asked, slipping her arms around the slim body that was moving gently onto her own, pressing against her, making that warm feeling of desire inside her grow ever so slowly into a gnawing, aching hunger.

“First, I will show you just how much I've missed you,” Root told her, before they kissed again, and Root's long fingers moved to the front of Shaw's shirt, where they began freeing the laces that fastened it.

The two of them were soon pulling off each other's clothing with increasing haste, and Shaw was gathering Root into her arms and carrying her to the bed, her mind driven mad by the sounds of Root's moans. Throughout those long days and nights away from the castle, Shaw had kept up her spirits with thoughts of Root, promising herself that they'd be together again. Now that they were, she couldn't help abandoning herself to the pleasures of devouring her. And devour her she did, again and again, spurred on by Root's whimpers and gasps and cries of ecstasy.

After bringing Root to orgasm several times, Shaw then waited for Root to return the favor in the way that only Root could. Gathering up up the leather straps that Shaw had discarded, Root returned to the disheveled bed with them and set about restraining her knight, fastening her wrists and feet to the bedposts. When her work was done, the naked body of the loyal knight was at the mercy of her queen.

This time it was Shaw's moaning that filled the queen's chamber, as she struggled and squirmed under the slow, teasing raptures of Root's mouth, which bit and sucked her toes before moving upwards, so excruciatingly slowly. There was a brief moment when Shaw felt Root's nose pushing between the folds of her labia, but it lasted for mere seconds before Root moved upward again, pressing down on Shaw's rib cage and belly. Then, ignoring Shaw's cries for mercy, the queen let her long, wavy hair fall across the suffering visage of her victim. As the soft tendrils were dragged across her eyes, her lips, her neck, Shaw felt Root's mouth move to her breasts, where she teased her nipples with her teeth before letting her tongue lightly brush them, then bathing them with its full weight, leaving Shaw panting and writhing, almost screaming for release.

“Patience, my sweet knight,” Root whispered softly, moving up to nuzzle Shaw's fevered forehead and then spoiling her lips with soft, lingering kisses.

“Remember this moment,” Root told her as her fingertips caressed Shaw's earlobes, then her jaw, then her throat. “Remember this feeling. For it's ours alone.”

The queen waited for her lover to nod. Then, she moved slowly down the body of the stricken knight, to her core, where she settled in and feasted, until both of them, happily satisfied and spent, could take no more.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in languid bliss, lying in bed, talking and kissing tenderly. Then Root pulled on an embroidered robe and called a servant to fill the bathtub so that Shaw could have the bath she'd been wanting.

“Should I stay to bathe the knight, your majesty?” the servant asked once the tub was full.

“No,” answered Root, who was already beginning to disrobe again. “You may leave.”

Shaw then got into the tub and Root got in behind her.

“So tell me about your journey, my love,” Root said as she washed Shaw's back.

“It's a no,” Shaw replied. “He says no.”

“Does he?” said Root, leaning forward to kiss the back of Shaw's shoulder. “Did you explain to him what would happen?”

Shaw turned her head and smiled at Root.

“Some people just have to learn the hard way,” she said. “There's a time for a dagger and a time for a scimitar.”

“And there's a time for mayhem,” said Root, before slipping her arms around Shaw's wet body and capturing her mouth in a long, deep kiss.


	7. A Taste of Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root surprises Shaw with a brunch that's yummy. The fellow known as Dave is feeling rather crummy. The queen and her knight make some magical moves. Then they're off, in a flurry of galloping hooves. Yes, this chapter summary has a rhyme, and it also has a taste much sweeter than wine.

* * *

It was close to 11 o'clock in the morning when Shaw emerged from her bedroom. Root was at the kitchen counter as usual, working on her laptops, and Bear was snoring nearby. The stereo was playing soft Latin jazz in the background.

“Welcome to daylight,” Root said cheerfully as Shaw made her way to the coffee pot. “I made some pancakes earlier. I guess you can call it brunch now. Help yourself.”

Shaw lifted the lid on the serving dish that was left to warm on the back burner of the stove. Root's pancakes were more like crepes, thin, buttery and golden brown. Another warming dish was sitting nearby with a sauce made of blackberries. It was like waking up in heaven. Shaw picked up a plate and began piling crepes onto it.

“Thanks,” she said. “This looks fantastic.”

She looked over at Bear, who was sprawled peacefully near Root's feet.

“Oh crap,” said Shaw. “He must need to go out.”

“Don't worry,” Root smiled back. “I've already taken him out for a walk.”

“What?” Shaw frowned. “You went out without me?”

“It's fine,” Root said. “I had The Machine with me, as well as the dog.”

Shaw looked over at the coffee table and spied her gun lying there like a discarded toy. How did Root get hold of that, she wondered. She put down her plate and went over to the table, picking up the gun and checking to see if it was loaded. It was.

“I don't recall giving you permission to borrow my piece,” Shaw said. “Next time, ask.”

“Or you could just get me my own,” Root suggested with a shrug.

Shaw ignored the request. She was actually glad to know that Root could handle herself. And if The Machine had Root's back, anyone who tried to interfere with her would be roadkill. Still, it was Shaw's gun. Root had some nerve to just take it like that.

Shaw sat down at the counter across from Root and began eating her brunch, which was even more delicious than it looked. Root was certainly regaining a lot of her talents. Did Shaw dare hope that all her memories would eventually return as well? She watched Root working, her long fingers flying across the keys of her laptop, her lashes fluttering now and then as she concentrated. Her hair was getting a little longer and starting to conceal part of the damaged ear. Shaw watched quietly as Root bit her bottom lip ever so gently, the way she used to. It made Shaw want to kiss her.

“Is that the website you're monitoring?” Shaw asked, after finishing her crepes.

“Yes, come and have a look,” Root replied. “There's a section on the site that offers a contact form, where a physician can send in a referral. That's where a hacker will try to gain entry. They'll want to get into the server and steal data.”

“So you think they'd try to find information about any patients Doctor Waymon might have in her system?” asked Shaw.

“Exactly,” said Root. “They will try to find information on Jane Doe. Phone number, address, email. Anything they can use to try to track me down.”

“Makes sense,” said Shaw. “So that's where the honeypot is.”

“Yes,” said Root. “If a hacker starts digging around in there, we can assign them a passive fingerprint. Then we can hack back.”

“We?” Shaw raised an eyebrow.

“Me and The Machine,” said Root.

Shaw studied the computer screen for a moment before asking Root to pull up the home page.

“The Moore-McCarthy Medical Clinic,” Shaw chuckled. “That's a pretty boring name.”

“The first part is for Gordon Moore, the author of Moore's Law,” explained Root. “He predicted that the number of transistors on a computer chip would double about every two years.”

“Fascinating but useless information,” Shaw deadpanned. “What about McCarthy?”

“John McCarthy, smiled Root. “Also known as the father of artificial intelligence.”

“Of course,” said Shaw. “Your pseudonyms always have some nerdy meaning. One day you'll get caught being clever.”

“That's part of the fun,” smirked Root. “You know, even Harold failed to pick up the reference in the Caroline Turing alias I used when I first engineered a meeting with him.”

Shaw put down her coffee mug in surprise.

“You remember that?”

“Yes,” said Root. “I do remember some of my interactions with Harold. More and more every day. The Machine sometimes plays me recordings of people's voices. Harold's voice triggered a lot of memories.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Shaw asked. “That's great news, isn't it?”

“I didn't want to get your hopes up,” Root replied, with a touch of sadness in her eyes. “There's still so much that I don't remember, Shaw.”

“Like us, right?” Shaw said. She couldn't hide the bitterness in her voice.

“Shaw...” Root began.

“Never mind,” Shaw said, standing up. “It's OK. I have to go out.”

She dressed quickly and headed for the door, grabbing her gun on the way out.

* * *

“Couldn't we just try it?” Shaw was asking The Machine as she walked along. “She said the voices triggered some memory recall. Why not show her a simulation of the two of us?”

“Memory is a very delicate thing, Ms. Shaw,” The Machine began. “Showing her a simulation could be confusing. In her mind, it could replace any real memories -- blot them out, in a way. The simulation would then become the memory.”

“So what?” asked Shaw testily. “If the simulation is true, it shouldn't matter.”

“But how would we build the simulation?” asked The Machine. “From whose recollection? Yours?”

“You must have some recordings and data you can access,” said Shaw. “Use those.”

“But Ms. Shaw,” Finch's voice pleaded. “Just stop walking and listen for a moment.”

Shaw stopped and ducked into a doorway, then leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. She suddenly felt exhausted.

“OK,” she said. “Explain this to me.”

“Ahem,” said The Machine. “I know you are anxious for Ms. Groves to recall the intimacy you shared. Of course, I wasn't always privy to those moments. And even if I had been there, it's the feelings that matter. Feelings, Ms. Shaw.”

“Well, maybe I could do that implant thing,” Shaw said.

She heard The Machine sigh, and it sounded so much like Finch she could practically see him sitting there at his desk, in front of his computers, the way he used to.

“That's what I'm trying to explain to you,” the voice said. “The implant might be able to harvest some of your memories. But they'd be from your point of view. It wouldn't help Ms. Groves, because --”

“Because of my Axis II personality disorder,” Shaw said, finishing the sentence.

There was a pause, then The Machine said, “Yes.”

Shaw stuffed her hands in her pockets and looked down at her feet. If she knew how to cry, she'd do it now.

“It actually would work quite well the other way, from her to you,” The Machine said.

“A lot of good that does us,” answered Shaw.

She pushed off from the wall and continued walking uptown, lost in the throng of people.

* * *

It was a misty, early morning when Root and her escort of knights left the castle and began their long journey. Shaw rode in front at first, then fell back so that she was alongside the queen and her sleek, dark horse. They traversed shallow streams, fields of green and hills blanketed with heather before they came to the immense, dark forest. It took them two days to ride through it and once they did, they found themselves in a cold, mountainous landscape.

“We should shelter here before making our final push in the morning,” Marco told Shaw.

The Persian nodded, then caught the eye of Root, who only smiled. The two of them had already made their own plans for the morning, and those plans did not include Marco or any of the other knights. Shaw later joined Root in her tent, where the queen was perusing a large, ancient book.

“All is in order, my queen,” Shaw greeted her.

“Your queen of what?” asked Root, one eyebrow raised.

“Awesomeness,” replied Shaw with the slightest smile.

Root closed the book and reached for Shaw's hand, leading her to the bed. Root shed her royal robes and released her long, wavy hair, then picked up her sword and held it out in front of her, with the point at Shaw's throat.

“Lay down your arms, my beautiful, fearsome knight,” she commanded, holding the sword under Shaw's chin and watching as Shaw slowly drew her dagger, dropped it on the ground, then unharnessed the strap that held her scimitar and similarly deposited it. Smaller weapons were then pulled from within a boot-top and the concealed pocket of a riding glove before Shaw held out her hands in surrender.

“Excellent,” said Root, picking up the dagger. “Now disrobe.”

Shaw obeyed and Root watched with growing satisfaction as each article was removed, first the boots, then the overgarments, then each accessory, all of them black. When Shaw got down to her loose white shirt and breeches, Root used the dagger to pull open the laces, while Shaw turned her head slightly to avoid the blade. Root moved slowly closer until she was near enough to hear the knight's ragged breath, to see the pulse throbbing through the translucent skin of her exposed neck. Desire building within her, Root dropped both the sword and the dagger and pulled Shaw into an embrace. Her hands tearing Shaw's clothes away from her taut body, Root kissed the knight madly. Shaw felt her own arms slip around the queen's slender form as she returned her kisses and allowed the last of her clothes to fall to the floor. Then, the two of them were on the bed, whispering their love to each other as their bodies merged and entangled.

Early the next morning, before darkness gave way to the first glimpse of dawn, Shaw helped Root onto her horse, then mounted her own steed and the two of them set out alone on the rest of their journey.

“The others will not follow us, will they?” Root asked the knight.

“No. I left Marco a letter with all your instructions,” answered Shaw. “They will wait at the camp, no matter what. It's just the two of us now.”

“Perfect,” said Root, and they rode on in silence for some time before coming to a clearing where a circle of large standing stones could be seen.

Shaw dismounted and stood quietly before the stone circle, with her sword drawn. Then, as Root watched, the knight closed her eyes and lifted her head toward the sky. Suddenly, Shaw's eyes opened to reveal only white, glowing preternatural orbs. She then began drawing a line on the ground with her sword, then another line and then another. Soon she had drawn a large geometric pattern that pointed off toward a mountain in the distance.

The knight stood still for a moment, then opened her eyes, dark-hued and mortal again.

“There,” she said, pointing to the distant mountain. “His castle lies northward.”

“Good work,” Root smiled. “Now it's my turn to play.”

Shaw retired to a large rock nearby where she sat and watched Root perform her magic. The queen stepped into the center of the stones and pulled out her own jeweled dagger. She drew it swiftly across her open palm and let several drops of blood fall onto the ground.

Then Root began to chant in a strange language, her eyes cast upwards as her lips moved and her arms spread out. She began to turn around, like she was dancing. But it wasn't a dance she was performing. It was a spell. Shaw could feel the air moving around her, getting warmer, crackling with electricity. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up, her skin tingling. Shaw smiled and felt her fingers grasp the rock. This was going to be good.

Soon, the wind whipped and churned and thunder began to boom in the distance. Shaw looked toward the castle, where a huge storm was raging, lightning piercing the sky and striking the turrets as torrential rain poured down.

Root continued the spell for a long while, her arms held skyward as she whirled around inside the stones. Then finally, she fell exhausted to the ground, her arms outstretched. Shaw sprang to her feet and ran toward the stone circle but a powerful force threw her backwards. She managed to get up again and staggered forward, cursing, trying to shove her body against the violent winds. It took her a while, but once she got close to the stones again, she called Root's name. The swirling winds began to die down and the storm gradually weakened. Finally, Shaw broke through into the center, gathering Root's limp body in her arms.

“Darling,” she whispered, smoothing Root's hair and kissing her forehead. “Come back to me.”

Root's face was motionless at first, then a smile began to appear on her lips and her eyelashes fluttered and opened to reveal a pair of twinkling eyes.

“Relax sweetie, I'm fine,” she said, rising to her feet.

“Queen of drama,” Shaw frowned. “I should have just left you there.”

Root smiled and playfully planted a kiss on Shaw's cheek.

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” the queen said, walking back to her horse. “That's my next spell.”

“I'm already under your spell,” Shaw muttered, as Root led her horse over to the rock where the knight had been sitting.

Shaw folded her arms in front of her and watched speechlessly as Root stepped up onto the rock and deftly climbed onto the horse.

“Shall we go?” Root asked cheerfully, nodding toward the ruined castle in the distance.

Her raven-haired knight merely shook her head, then placed her foot in a stirrup and swung herself up onto her own horse, urging the beast into a steady pace at the side of her beloved.

* * *

The tall man known as Dave sat in his car, waiting for the parking garage door to open. He kept inserting his smart card into the slot, but instead of a green light, he kept getting a red one, accompanied by an angry buzzing sound. He cursed, took the card out, wiped it on his pants, tried again. Buzz.

Now another car was pulling up behind his, its driver looking surly and impatient. Dave looked in his rear view mirror at the man behind him and waved good-naturedly. The man tightened his mouth and glared.

“Same to you buddy,” Dave muttered to himself, sliding the card into the slot again, only to hear the reader respond with another buzz.

“Shit,” said Dave.

The only way to access this building was electronically. And the parking garage was the best entry point, since it would allow a lot more anonymity than the front door, which was monitored by a security guard. No appointment, no entry. But Dave needed to get up to the 12th floor, where the Moore-McCarthy Medical Clinic was located. So he'd waited until office hours were over. Once he got up there, he could break into the office and look for files, or anything that would lead him to either Doctor Waymon or Jane Doe. Maybe he'd even beat the hacker to the prize. He still believed in the old-fashioned approach.

Meanwhile, the shortcomings of technology were starting to get on his nerves. The man in the car behind him apparently shared his contempt for smart cards and began leaning on his horn. Now Dave, who rarely lost his temper, was starting to get annoyed. He couldn't back up. He couldn't go forward. He couldn't do much of anything except give the guy the finger.

That was when he noticed two things about the angry man in the car behind him. The first thing was that the man appeared to have a fairly stocky build. Dave was not adverse to fighting – and he'd handled stocky men before -- but he preferred not to settle things with his fists. Then he noticed the second thing about the man, which made him hesitate. The man was holding up a badge.

“Shit,” Dave said again. He'd have to get rid of this guy, and do it without raising any red flags.

He undid his seat belt and turned his head towards the door, reaching for the handle to open it. That was when he saw a fist coming right at him through the open window. There was a loud smack, pain exploded through his head and then everything went black.

When Dave came to, he found himself sitting in a chair with his hands tied behind him. He realized his legs were tightly bound to the chair. He also realized he wasn't alone.

He was in a large, sweet-smelling room that looked like a factory of some kind and there were two other people in the room. One of them was the stocky man who'd been in the car behind him and the other was the woman he'd known as Doctor E.K. Waymon. Only now, instead of a white lab coat, she was dressed in tight black pants, a black tank top and boots with scary-looking heels. She was sitting on the back of another chair with her boots on the seat of the chair and she was facing him and she was pointing a gun at him. She didn't look very friendly.

The stocky man was also staring at him, asking him who he was working for. Dave now realized the man was a detective who had visited the hospital as well. It only took Dave a few seconds to put all of this together.

“Why are you after Jane Doe?” the cop was asking. “Hey, dumb ass. I'm asking you a question.”

Dave just smiled. “I don't know what you're talking about --” he began, but he didn't get a chance to finish the sentence because the woman in black had hopped down from her perch and was punching him in the face again.

“Whoa, hold on Shaw,” the detective said. “Take it easy.”

“Yeah, take it easy Shaw,” said Dave, after spitting the blood out of his mouth. “Maybe you should take an anger management course.”

He managed to finish that sentence before Shaw punched him again.

“Where's that fucking hook?” Shaw was asking. “We could hang him upside down by his feet.”

“They don't have any hooks in here,” the cop replied. “It's a cookie factory. They used to make fortune cookies here but now they make these.”

He picked up a small cardboard box and took out a large cookie made in the shape of a star.

“Star cookies?” asked the woman named Shaw. “Here, let me try one.”

The cop handed her the box and she took one of the cookies and bit into it.

“Mmm, not bad,” she said, nodding her head. “Awfully sweet though. Too sweet for my taste, although I know someone who'd love it.”

She threw the half-eaten cookie back into the box and took out another one.

“Hey, you know what these look like, Lionel?” she asked the cop. “They look like those throwing stars the ninjas use.”

“Yeah, sorta,” Lionel replied.

“I wonder if they fly,” the woman said, flinging the cookie like a Frisbee at Dave's head. “Yep. They do.”

Dave tried not to flinch as the cookie hit him, but he couldn't help it. The woman flung another cookie at him, this one a little harder.

“Don't worry, they're just cookies,” she said, without cracking a smile. “They won't hurt. Oops, I guess that one did.”

“Come on Shaw, stop playing with your food,” said the cop named Lionel. “You're making a mess.”

“You think you're going to make me talk by pelting me with cookies?” Dave asked calmly.

“Not really,” said Shaw, tossing the box onto the chair. “That was just for fun.”

She walked up to him and pressed the gun to his head.

“Who are you working for?” she asked sharply. “If you don't tell us, we won't kill you. We'll maim you. So you won't be able to count on a big insurance policy for your family.”

“What?” Dave asked. “I don't even have a family. Just an ex-wife. And she already got enough from me.”

The woman and the cop looked at each other.

“OK, then,” she said. “Let's waste him.”

“Wait a minute,” Dave said, looking at Lionel. “You're a cop. You can't just kill people.”

“Yeah, you're right,” said Lionel, glancing at Shaw. “So what, we're back to maiming again?”

“Hold on,” said Dave. “Look, I don't know anything about the person who hired me. I get messages through a burner phone. And the voice is always altered. I can't tell who it is. I can't even tell if it's a man or woman.”

Shaw tightened her grip on the gun.

“Bye Dave,” she said.

He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw and held his breath. Shaw pulled the trigger. Click. Dave opened his eyes to see Shaw swing the butt of her gun toward his head. Then everything went black again.

* * *

It was late by the time Shaw returned home. Root was exactly where she'd been when Shaw left earlier, at the kitchen counter, immersed in her computer work. Bear was snuggled up in his doggie bed. They both looked up when Shaw came in, holding a white cardboard box.

“Brought you some cookies,” Shaw said, placing the box on the counter. “Don't give any to the dog, though, OK?”

“Thanks,” Root said, opening the box. “Mmm, they look yummy. So I guess you and Lionel had some fun with Dave tonight.”

“Yeah, it worked perfectly,” Shaw replied, pulling off her hoodie and sitting down on the living room couch. “The Machine jammed the reader so his parking card didn't work. We took him out for cookies after that.”

“And did you get any good intel from him?” Root asked, coming over to the couch.

“No,” said Shaw. “But I put a tracking device on him before we left. I'll keep an eye on him, to see where he takes us. He might try to meet with his contact. He might not.”

“What happened to your hand?” Root asked, staring at Shaw's bloodied knuckles.

“Oh, nothing,” Shaw said, looking down at her hand. “It's nothing.”

“No it's not,” Root clucked, taking Shaw's hand and inspecting the back of it. “You've broken open the skin again.”

She got up and went to the hall closet, returning with the first aid kit.

“The hacker went for the honeypot,” Root said while she swabbed Shaw's knuckles and set about bandaging them.

“And were you able to get that fingerprint on them?” asked Shaw.

“Yes,” said Root. “Meanwhile, The Machine fed them some fake contact info that should keep them busy for a while. That leaves me multiple options for attacks.”

“I'm surprised you're not hunched over your keyboard right now,” said Shaw.

“I was for most of the day,” Root smiled. “Thought I'd take a break. Seemed like a good time.”

She wrapped a bandage around Shaw's hand and secured the ends with some medical tape, pressing it into Shaw's palm. Just then, she looked up, and their eyes met. Root's face took on a strange, wistful look.

“We've done this before, haven't we?” she asked.

Shaw nodded, her eyes still locked with Root's. Then she noticed Root's eyes gently closing and Root's mouth turning toward hers and then she began leaning forward and reaching out for the softness of her. Their kiss, full of such aching and loss and tenderness, was almost too much to bear.

Shaw lifted her bandaged hand to Root's face, then kissed her again as Root's arms moved around her. Closing her eyes as they embraced, Shaw could feel the warmth of Root's head on her shoulder, her breath on her neck, her mouth at her ear.

“I remember,” Root whispered at last.


	8. The Uncanny Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The knight and her queen reach the object of their quest. Annoying adversaries from the past make an appearance. Beloved friends are rescued. There's good coffee, there's a knight fight and there's some angst.

* * *

At first, Shaw thought it was another dream, or maybe a simulation. She couldn't recall the last time she woke up feeling this good. But no, it was real. The woman nestled against her body, her head snuggled into Shaw's neck, was indeed the one Shaw had been wanting in her bed for a long while now.

She could tell Root was awake. Her eyes were open. And she was stroking the inside of Shaw's forearm with two long fingers, using the lightest touch.

“Hey, are you OK?” Shaw whispered, bending over a little to kiss Root's forehead.

“Am I OK?” Root repeated, looking up to meet Shaw's eyes with a slow smile.

“You know,” Shaw smiled back.

“Yes,” said Root. “I'm good, Sameen. And I know you are fantastic as well.”

That made Shaw chuckle, so she kissed Root again, then sighed and gave herself over to the sensation of Root's fingers tracing long lines against her arm. After a while, Root moved her hand to Shaw's side and began lengthening the strokes, tickling and teasing Shaw's skin with her fingertips, then the flat side of her nails, making the long muscle there twitch. Root had always known exactly how to drive Shaw mad in bed, and she was well into another campaign right now, her touch getting lighter and lighter on Shaw's skin as she moved her hand back and forth. Shaw found herself getting almost light-headed with desire. Pretty soon she was going to take Root by the shoulders and roll over on top of her and press her compact form into Root's slender body and have her way.

But she never managed that maneuver, because Root's hand had already moved between Shaw's legs and was sliding against her clitoris. Shaw turned her head to one side and began to breathe harder as Root pressed on, covering the length of Shaw's supine body with her own and using her free hand to pin Shaw's wrists above her head.

“Mercy,” Shaw began to writhe, her mouth open, her breath ragged, her eyelids fluttering. Then, she began to moan and whatever words she was trying to say became one long, smothered sound until she eventually came, saying her lover's name over and over.

Root lingered over her, bending her head down and teasing Shaw's open mouth with her own.

“How are you now?” Root asked. “Was that OK? I couldn't really tell from your reaction if that was OK or not.”

Shaw's eyes opened and her muscles tensed. Then she flipped over in one quick movement and pinned Root to the bed, holding her wrists down.

“You didn't get enough of this last night, did you?” Shaw asked, as Root struggled underneath her.

Shaw began to kiss and bite Root's neck, then proceeded to nuzzle her mercilessly, teasing her with flicks of her tongue. Root kept trying to kiss her on the mouth, but Shaw wouldn't allow it. She could hear Root whimpering and begging, so she went back to nuzzling her, letting her long, dark hair fall onto Root's face.

“Now?” Shaw asked after a while of this. “Do you want it now? Say please.”

“Please,” Root gasped.

Shaw let go of Root's wrists and moved down to her breasts, kissing, licking and caressing them, then continued slowly moving her mouth down Root's long torso until her face was buried in the sweet fragrance of her vulva. She slipped her hands under Root's hips and settled into her, licking and sucking, her tongue lapping up all the honey at the core, at the root of Root.

Root came over and over while Shaw tongued and ate her, and the sounds Root made drove Shaw into orgasm herself. When she finally finished her work, they were both lying exhausted and spent on the bed.

“Well, you won't be forgetting that anytime soon,” Shaw said after a while, and she heard Root laugh in response.

“If I do, you can remind me,” she said, kissing the palm of Shaw's hand.

Then Root got up and pulled on a dark blue dressing gown from Shaw's bedroom closet. She looked at the hand Shaw was holding out towards her.

“Your bandage came off,” Root said.

“Hhhm,” said Shaw. “It's fine. That dressing gown looks good on you. Come here.”

She grabbed Root's wrist and pulled her towards her, so that Root was sitting on the bed and Shaw's arms were around her, and they kissed again for a while before Shaw released her.

“I'll get the coffee started,” Root smiled, disappearing from Shaw's room.

It was several minutes later when Shaw showed up in the kitchen in a black tank top and boy shorts, enticed by the aroma of the morning brew.

“Mmmm, Sumatran,” Shaw said, closing her eyes and savoring the taste of the coffee. “You always make the best coffee. I could get used to having you around.”

She opened her eyes to see Root standing with on hand on the counter, smiling almost shyly at her.

“So you like having me around?” she asked.

“Um, sometimes,” Shaw replied nervously. “I mean ...”

“Do you want me to stay here?” Root asked. “Live here with you?”

The directness of the question made Shaw freeze for a second or two. She raised her mug for another sip, then set it on the counter and pulled Root into her arms.

“Yes,” she said, planting a kiss on Root's lips. “I want you to live here with me in my safe house. Is that OK?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

The magical storm conjured by Root had left a scene of devastation at the castle. Shaw and her queen were still a few miles away from the drawbridge, but they could see smoke rising from the ruined turrets, and ash floating down from the mountain.

“Look, there,” Shaw called to Root, pulling up her horse.

She was pointing to a figure in the distance, a rider approaching them at a gallop. The rider was small, dressed mostly in green, and wearing the helmet and armor of a knight. One of the knight's hands held the horse's reins but in the other was a white flag, raised high. Shaw drew her sword and brought her horse in front of Root's.

The approaching horse and rider neared them and slowed, with the armored knight flipping up a hinged mask on the helmet. Root recognized the rider right away. It was Lady Claire of Mahoney.

“Halt, maiden,” called out Shaw. “Or I'll smite thee.”

“Smite?” snickered Root. “Just threaten to kick her ass, trust me.”

Lady Claire pulled up her horse and waved the flag, as though she felt Shaw had not seen it the first time.

“We surrender,” she called out. “I'm unarmed.”

“Dismount from your steed,” Shaw told her. “I want to search you for weapons.”

Shaw jumped down from her horse and waited for the armored knight to do the same. After Claire dismounted and held up her arms, Shaw began patting her down, first checking for any swords on her back, then pulling off her helmet.

“Shaw!” Root suddenly cried out, as Claire pulled a dagger from inside her long sleeve and swung it at Shaw's neck.

But the clever Persian had already seen the dagger and swiftly dodged the blade. She countered by swinging her left arm hard into Claire's midsection, which sent the younger woman to the ground. Before Root could even dismount, her knight was engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with her foe. Within seconds, both of the knights were rolling on the ground and wrestling for control of Shaw's sword as well as the dagger. Root watched in horror as Claire's fingers reached for the handle of the small weapon, just inches from her grasp, barely touching it. But Shaw saw it too and pinned Claire's wrist down, then flung away the sword and slammed her fist into the other knight's face before finally subduing her with a choke hold.

Root walked over to the dagger and kicked it away. Shaw was sitting up now, her arms locked around Claire's head and neck, and her legs around her torso. Claire was still trying to struggle, but her arms flailed uselessly as she weakened in Shaw's grip.

“Any more surprises you need to tell us about?” Shaw asked, panting with the effort as she tightened her hold and spoke into the younger knight's ear.

Claire shook her head, grunting and gasping, then collapsed into unconsciousness.

Shaw pushed her body aside and got up, while Root returned to the horses for some rope to tie up their prisoner.

“OK, that was kind of hot,” Root said with a sly smile. “I do love watching you work.”

“I know,” Shaw replied. “Can we talk about it later?”

“Of course,” smiled Root, and the two of them set to tying Claire up and then lifting her bound body onto Shaw's horse.

At the drawbridge, a single guard was waiting, but he dropped his weapons when he saw Root and Shaw ride up with their hostage.

“Tell your king to come down here and surrender,” Shaw told him. “And tell him to bring our friends, the two prisoners he's been holding in the dungeon.”

The guard ran off and Shaw dismounted, pulling Claire's body down from the horse. The tied-up hostage had come to and she was already struggling and straining at her bonds.

Shaw dragged her over to the drawbridge and tied her wrists firmly to the gate. Then she unsheathed her sword and waited for the king to appear. Soon, there was the sound of footsteps and several guards appeared. Shaw stood up on her toes to try to look past them.

“Where's your king?” she asked. “Is he there?”

There was a shuffling sound and the guards moved apart, revealing a boy of about 10, wearing a long fur robe and a crown that was far too big for his head.

“Sorceress! You ruined my castle,” he shouted at Root, stamping his foot. “I will destroy you!”

“You really want to do this, Gabriel?” asked Root with a frown. “You should be playing shinty with the other boys. Not starting a war. Where the heck are your parents, anyway?”

“It's not fair,” Gabriel fumed. “Your magic is stronger than mine.”

“Whoever said life was fair?” shrugged Root, nodding toward her knight.

Shaw took a step forward, her sword at the ready.

“Turn over our friends right now,” she told the tiny king. “Or I'll smite you, you little shit.”

Gabriel glared at Shaw, took a deep breath, then snapped his fingers. Two guards emerged escorting King Harold and his bishop, John Reese, who stood blinking in the bright midday sun as the guards cut the bonds away from their hands.

“How was the dungeon?” Shaw asked Reese as he climbed onto her horse for the ride home.

“Dark and dingy,” he replied. “But kind of fun. What have you two been up to?”

Shaw smiled slyly and clicked her tongue at her horse.

“Mayhem,” she said.

* * *

Spinner stepped out of the bar and lit a cigarette, then began his short walk back home. It was already dark and he didn't feel like staying out too late, even if it was his designated night off. He had made a few friends at the bar, and it was nice to shoot some pool there now and then, but he was getting tired of the place, the people and the whole situation he was in.

When he got to his condo, he opened the door to find Shaw waiting for him. He almost gasped in surprise.

“Don't worry, I come in peace,” she said. “Thought you might want to order a pizza or something.”

“A pizza?” he asked.

“Yeah, I wanted to thank you,” Shaw replied. “For the stories you've been writing. I've been enjoying them.”

Spinner didn't know what to say. He hadn't written anything in weeks. Was she being sarcastic? Maybe she really had come to kill him this time. He sat down on the couch in the living room.

“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously, as Shaw passed him a beer from the fridge.

“The magic medieval fantasy thing you've been writing,” Shaw explained. “I love it. It's exactly what I wanted.”

She seemed to almost blush, almost. Spinner had never seen Shaw look so enthusiastic about anything.

“I don't know how you got all that sex stuff so perfect, and I'm not sure I want to know,” she was continuing. “You must be watching some scintillating porn.”

“Hang on,” Spinner held up his hand. “Look, I don't know what you're talking about --”

“It's OK,” Shaw said. “I can pay the cable bill, or whatever. I don't need the details.”

“I didn't write it,” Spinner finally said.

“What?”

“I haven't done any work in weeks,” he said. “I thought you had come here to fire me. Or kill me. Whatever.”

He took another swig of his beer. “So when are we ordering the pizza?” he asked.

Shaw stood up, her hands on her hips. She turned away from Spinner and began talking to someone on her phone. The Machine, Spinner guessed. He excused himself and went to the washroom, leaving her alone with her artificial super-intelligence.

“So this is your doing,” Shaw said, confronting The Machine. “You've managed to finish that program you've been talking about.”

“Yes, and I can see you are quite happy with the results,” The Machine replied. “I was pretty sure it hit all the right notes.”

Shaw shook her head in amazement.

“Uh, yeah,” she said. “I'm impressed. But I find it hard to believe you'd know all that ... you know, the sex part. I mean, how could you?”

“Oh that,” said The Machine, sounding as embarrassed as Harold would be. “Well, that part didn't come from me, actually.”

“OK, now I'm confused,” Shaw said. “It sure didn't come from me. I don't have an implant.”

“No.”

Shaw's eyes suddenly widened as she realized the truth. She stood riveted to the spot for a moment, until Spinner re-entered the room.

“Is everything OK?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Fine,” Shaw replied. “You're fired. Pack your stuff.”

He could only watch in shocked silence as she disappeared out the door.

* * *

Root had just returned from walking Bear and was hanging up his leash when Shaw burst in the door.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Shaw demanded.

“Kiss, kiss to you too,” Root smiled with a lift of her eyebrows. “Wow, you really are mad. The Machine told me.”

Shaw came down the stairs and grabbed Root's wrist, her eyes burning intensely.

“We're supposed to be honest with each other,” Shaw said. “That means no secrets.”

“But that's exactly what the implant is doing,” Root smiled. “Helping me share with you. Secrets, dreams, desires, fantasies ...”

Shaw just stared back at her.

“I told you I got an upgrade,” Root continued. “It was done at the same time as the cochlear device. It just made sense to do it then.”

“You're wired into The Machine,” Shaw said softly. “Just like before.”

“And she's in me,” Root replied. “Is that too weird for you, Sameen?”

Shaw took a deep breath, released Root's hand and went to sit down in the living room. It wasn't long before Root joined her.

“I'm sorry,” Root said. “I was going to tell you. We've been having so much fun lately--”

“You didn't want to spoil it?” asked Shaw.

“Um, no,” said Root. “When I started working on this project with The Machine, I wasn't quite ready to be with you that way. But I wanted to give you something. I wanted it to be perfect.”

“It was,” Shaw said, looking up to meet Root's eyes. “Until now.”

She got up and Root followed her toward the door.

“I've been patient, waiting for you,” Shaw said, turning to face Root. “I thought I'd be enough for you, without The Machine. But you can never be without it, can you?”

Root just stared at her, so Shaw picked up her hoodie and started up the steps to the door.

“Where are you going?” Root asked.

“I need some air,” said Shaw. “I'm going for a walk.”

“No,” Root pleaded, reaching for her arm. “Don't walk away, Sam.”

Shaw had every intention of walking out the door, maybe forever. She'd never understand everything going on in Root's head. But now Root was permanently connected to this thing, this intelligence. Benevolent or not, trustworthy or not, The Machine would always have a hold on Root, and would always be a part of her that Shaw could never touch.

She stopped for a moment and looked into Root's eyes, and saw the warm smile that showed the tenderness inside her. Then she caught a glimpse of the pain and fear that remained just behind it all. The fear that Shaw would leave.

“Please,” said Root. “I've got something for you.”

“It's not food, is it?” asked Shaw.

Root shook her head, then took Shaw's hand and led her back into the living room. Shaw waited while Root opened the stereo cabinet and put in a CD, then turned it up. The sound of the gently lilting steel guitar was almost hypnotic. Root began to sway to the music, then held out her arms to Shaw.

“Come on,” Root said. “I don't remember us ever dancing together. Did we?”

“No,” said Shaw.

“Why not?” asked Root. “I bet you are a good dancer. I'll even let you lead.”

She smiled then, and Shaw could not continue the standoff while Root swayed in front of her like that, smiling and holding her hands out. She stepped closer to Root, taking one of her hands while Root also stepped closer and rested her other hand on Shaw's shoulder. As they began to move, Shaw gently slipped a hand around her taller partner's waist.

“OK, we're dancing,” said Shaw. “Now what?”

“Just go with it,” Root whispered, letting her forehead touch Shaw's ever so lightly. “Feel the music. It's nice, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Shaw, but she liked feeling Root so close to her.

She pulled her a little closer as the music swirled around them. Soon, Root's hand moved to Shaw's face, lifting her chin so that their mouths were closer, and then they were kissing and Shaw forgot about her anger, and about leaving, and about the damn Machine. She just wanted to keep Root in her arms.


	9. Look Backward, Live Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Root brings Shaw to a book club meeting with guns but no wine. The hackers are given the gate and The Machine learns not to be that annoying third wheel.

* * *

The journey back to Queen Root's castle was made at a far more leisurely pace than the ride out. The quartet of Root, Shaw, Harold and John Reese managed to reach the knights' encampment before sunset and a hearty meal of wild boar was waiting for them when they arrived, much to the delight of Shaw, who of course was ravenous.

King Harold took the opportunity to question Root about what had happened in his absence, and in particular, about the care of his dragon and who had been feeding it.

“Don't worry, we left Lionel with a list of instructions about how to feed her,” Root told him. “He's been handling horses, unicorns and chariots for years. A dragon shouldn't be too much of a challenge for a marshal of his experience.”

King Harold gave Root a grateful smile.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I know I can trust you to look after things. You and I have been comrades for many years, even after I lost my own kingdom.”

“Don't give it another thought, Harold,” Root said, pouring them both another goblet of wine. “But now I'd like to ask you a few questions about your own adventure. How did Gabriel manage to kidnap you and John?”

“I'd gone out with the bishop for a day of hunting in the forest,” Harold explained. “John was stalking a buck and we'd been on the trail of it for hours. Finally, John got close enough to take a shot. But just as he raised his bow, we found ourselves being attacked by a band of brigands, or so we thought.”

He sipped his wine and went on.

“We tried to fight them off but there were too many of them and John was injured. Eventually, they captured us and took us to Gabriel's castle. That was when we learned the brigands were in fact working for him. He paid them a generous bounty when they turned us over.”

“And what did he want from you?” Root asked.

“He wanted my dragon,” Harold replied. “He's willing to do just about anything to get one of his own.”

“His magic is not strong enough, yet,” Root said. “But one day...”

“Yes,” Harold agreed. “He could one day be a most powerful wizard. He also covets your unicorns, Root.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” she replied. “They are the most exquisitely beautiful unicorns in the world. But I'll be ready for Gabriel and his knight Lady Claire next time.”

Harold nodded and looked up just as Shaw reappeared.

“John's fine,” the Persian reported. “I changed his bandages and he's resting. But he should be fine to continue home tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Shaw,” said Harold. “Now I think I'll retire for the night. See you on the morrow.”

He got up and left Root, who was now watching Shaw lift the flap of their own tent. Before going inside, the knight smiled at Root and arched an eyebrow suggestively.

“Remember that thing we were going to discuss later?” Shaw asked.

“I haven't stopped thinking about it,” answered Root, taking Shaw's outstretched hand.

* * *

Shaw removed the headset and clicked off the simulation program. She never thought she'd be all sexed out, but after the intensity of the last couple of nights, she wasn't quite ready for another hot and heavy session with Root, simulated or not. The dancing had been quite nice though, and she was glad Root had suggested it.

“Do you want to have breakfast on the terrace?” Root's voice was now calling to her.

Shaw saw that Root was already heading out to her chair on the terrace with a plate of French toast and a cup of coffee. Shaw nodded and got up, retrieving her own breakfast from the kitchen and joining Root outside.

“What I said last night about the machine,” Shaw began. “I'm sorry. It's kind of silly to be jealous of an AI. Or jealous about it. Whatever.”

She looked over at Root, who was smiling back at her.

“It is silly, isn't it?” Shaw asked, just to be sure.

“I'm not going to tell you that your feelings are silly,” Root said. “But if you think The Machine is leaving you out of things, you're wrong.”

“What do you mean?” frowned Shaw, chewing on her toast.

“The Machine is using the simulation to tell you who the hackers are,” said Root. “The honeypot helped us catch them in the act and I'd be willing to bet your tracking device will lead us straight to them.”

“It's that little fuck Gabriel, right?” asked Shaw. “I wondered what happened to him.”

“Both he and Claire have been trying to find The Machine,” said Root. “They didn't want me to find it first.”

“Too late,” said Shaw. “I guess they didn't know The Machine was already in contact with me.”

“Probably not,” said Root. “They're in for a surprise, anyway.”

After breakfast, Shaw loaded her guns and slipped one into her waistband as a backup piece. Root watched silently as Shaw pulled on her hoodie and laced up her boots.

“What?” Shaw asked, looking up.

“Can I please have a gun now?” Root asked sweetly.

“Who said you were invited?” asked Shaw, who was suddenly feeling protective.

“No one,” answered Root. “But from what I remember, I never needed an invitation in the past. Anyway, I have a plan.”

Shaw stared at her for a moment, then sighed and pulled the backup piece from its hiding place in her waistband and handed it to Root.

“Thanks,” said Root. “Can I have a second one please?”

“Don't even go there,” said Shaw, shaking her head. “I take it you and The Machine have isolated the hackers by now?”

“We have a cellphone signal,” said Root. “And by spoofing their numbers we were able to send fake messages to both Dave and the hackers, setting up a meeting between them.”

“Dave's already on the move,” said Shaw, glancing at her phone. “Let's get going.”

It wasn't long before they were climbing the front steps of the magnificent midtown library building again. Root nodded at one of the stone guardians as they passed it.

“Look, there's Fortitude,” she whispered to Shaw. “How appropriate.”

“Just stick to the plan,” replied Shaw. “I want this over with as quickly as possible.”

“Patience,” smiled Root, as they entered the building and made their way to a particular room, where many people sat reading at long tables.

The two of them split up and circled around the stacks, guided by The Machine's directions and Shaw's tracking device. Soon, Root found her hackers and sat down across the table from them. Claire's face registered alarm, while Gabriel wore a cherubic grin that signaled his recognition of Root.

“It's Samantha Groves,” Gabriel greeted her. “Recalled to Life.”

“You know I don't answer to that name,” said Root. “And do you really want to discuss Dickens right now? We can do that. I'm told there are some valuable first editions in the rare book collection here.”

“I'm more into Tolkien myself,” answered the boy.

“Well, that figures,” Root said with a shrug. “What about you, Claire? Are you into the classics? Twentieth-century American lit, maybe? Hemingway? Fitzgerald? You don't strike me as much of a romantic, actually.”

“I prefer non-fiction,” the young woman said icily. “What do you want?”

“I want you to cease and desist,” Root said. “Call off your hit and leave me, The Machine and my friends alone.”

“And if we don't?” asked Gabriel. “You'll take away our library cards?”

“Worse,” answered Root calmly. “The Machine watches you every hour of every day. The next time you try to log on to a computer, or even try to play Pokemon Go on your smartphone, you'll crash. You won't be able to send a text to your chess buddies or Google Map your way to the Apple Store.”

Claire began to get up, but stopped when Root tapped her gun against the underside of the table.

“I'm not finished, Claire,” Root said, glancing down the length of the table to where Shaw stood, effectively blocking any way out of the room.

Next to Shaw was Dave, looking as nervous as a man can look when he knows the compact sociopath standing next to him has a gun in her pocket. For a few seconds, nobody moved. Then Root spoke again.

“The Machine is watching you too, Claire,” she said. “You were given a chance to do the right thing and you chose wrong. Harold tried to help you and you led him into a trap. The Machine told me all about it.”

“It could have gone the other way just as easily,” said Claire. “Samaritan could have won and we'd be on opposite sides of this table right now.”

Root took a breath and smiled, then looked at both of the young hackers.

“I could answer that with a speech about good versus evil, about how good will always triumph, how it always has triumphed in the end, even when things were at their darkest and all hope gone. But I really don't care what the two of you think. You are done.”

She leaned forward and continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Samaritan would have shown no mercy. It would have killed us all to get its way –- even the two of you, once you'd served your purpose. That's the big difference between your twisted digital monster and The Machine. You two will get a second chance to figure out the right path for yourselves. But remember this. The Machine will be watching you every step of the way. Now go.”

Claire stood up and hurriedly left the room, while Gabriel remained sitting for a moment, his face no longer the mask of a smirking imp. He glowered at Root, then leaned forward and slammed his fist on the table.

“You're so mean! I hate you!” he shouted.

Gabriel's outburst brought a round of shushes from throughout the room, which served to inflame him further. He practically leaped across the table to get at Root, but found himself being restrained by the strong grip of an NYPD detective.

“That's it for today, Rumpelstiltskin,” said Fusco, pulling the squirming child away from the table. “Your parents are looking for you. And I've got a great story to tell them.”

He gave Root a wink, then marched the boy out of the room. Root silently watched the pair of them go before getting up from the table and joining Shaw with the captive Dave.

“What about me?” he asked. “Are you just going to shoot me in the middle of the library?”

“Not in the children's section,” Shaw said. “Let's go.”

She and Root began to escort Dave from the room but as soon as they got to the hallway, he broke away and began to run. Shaw just shook her head and gave Root a knowing glance as they watched him try to escape up the stairs.

“He's coming your way, Lionel,” Shaw said into her phone.

At the top of the stairs, Fusco was waiting, along with two library cops. Dave tried to pivot, but it was too late. One of the officers held out his arm to block his escape and the other moved behind him.

“Excuse me sir,” said the first officer. “We have reason to believe you are in possession of library property.”

“What property?” exclaimed Dave. “I don't have anything--”

The officers led Dave to their hallway desk, where they began searching his backpack and jacket. It didn't take them long to find what they were looking for.

“A rare first edition of Lewis Carroll,” said the library cop, holding up the old book. “You've got some nerve, mister.”

“But I didn't take that!” Dave protested. “I'm being set up!”

Shaw and Root walked right past the kerfuffle and exited the building, as the library cops cuffed the suspected book thief.

“Nice work Shaw,” said Root. “I'm not going to ask how you got your hands on that old book.”

“Good, 'cause I'm not telling,” said Shaw.

“Well, with the record our friend Dave has, he's looking at some time behind bars for this,” said Root. “They take rare book theft pretty seriously in this burg.”

“Oh, you think they'll throw--”

“Don't say it, Shaw.”

The two of them walked on for a while, Root wearing that far-away look she often did while listening to The Machine. Then she turned to Shaw with a suggestion.

“We haven't gone out for dinner in a while,” she said. “It'll be my treat this time. I'd like to thank you for everything you've done for me.”

“Like what?” asked Shaw.

“Letting me get back on the job,” Root smiled. “It's nice working together.”

“Don't ask for another gun,” Shaw said. “I want to see how you do with just one first.”

Root gave her a smile, then took her arm and guided her into an Italian restaurant.

“You were talking to The Machine just now,” Shaw said after they ordered.

“She's making sure my credit limit will be enough to afford this place,” Root said, looking around. “Actually, she's been topping up my bank account. I don't ask how.”

“And I don't want to know either,” said Shaw, sipping her wine. “Was there anything else?”

“Yes, Shaw,” said Root. “I've been having a little argument with her.”

The feminine pronoun kept throwing Shaw, whose communications with The Machine still took the sound of Harold Finch's voice. Shaw had to remind herself that The Machine had a different kind of relationship with Root, and that it often involved what Root called arguments. Luckily, the two of them seemed to be able to work things out.

“Was the argument about me by any chance?” Shaw asked.

The warm half-smile Root gave Shaw told her the answer. Shaw sighed and looked down. Then Root reached out for her hand.

“I don't want you to feel like The Machine will always be between us,” Root said. “I'm considering having the implant removed.”

“Surgery again?” Shaw's voice betrayed her alarm. “No, you can't. I don't want you going under the knife again so soon.”

“If it means making things right ...” Root began.

“No,” Shaw said firmly. “I won't allow it.”

Root smiled, warmed by Shaw's protectiveness, aching to show how much she appreciated her love and loyalty. There had to be a way. But the manicotti had arrived at the table and Shaw was ready to dig into something more palatable. Soon, she was eating, and Root knew there would be no more discussion about The Machine for a while.

* * *

The next morning, Shaw woke up alone in Root's bed. The aroma of a fresh Sumatran brew was beckoning to her, so she pulled on a tank top and shorts and padded into the kitchen, expecting to find Root at the counter with her laptop.

But there was no sign of her, or Bear, so Shaw took her coffee out onto the terrace. She heard them returning about 10 minutes later, Bear thumping down the stairs and grabbing a chew toy on his way in.

“Hey,” Shaw called out.

“Hi sweetie,” Root replied, joining Shaw outside and leaning over to kiss her temple before sitting down. “Looks like we have a lazy day today.”

“Yeah, it's been quiet,” Shaw replied. “But I guess I could use some down time.”

“How about some us time?” asked Root. “Just you and me, no missions, no Machine.”

Shaw turned to look at her, frowning.

“No Machine?” she asked. “How are we going to manage that?”

“I hard coded a privacy option into The Machine,” Root explained. “Whenever we want some alone time, I just hit the mute button. And voila, she'll leave us alone.”

Shaw just stared at her, speechless.

“Unless there's an emergency of course,” Root continued. “I hard coded that as well, defining the parameters of an emergency. End of the world kind of stuff. Running low on milk in the fridge wouldn't qualify.”

“We're running low on milk?” Shaw deadpanned.

Root tilted her head to one side and gave Shaw the adoring smile that Shaw secretly loved. Then she leaned back into her chair, enjoying the sensation of the sun and the cool morning breeze on her face.

“So how do you hit this mute button, anyway?” Shaw said after a while. “I'd like a demo, if you don't mind.”

“It's easy,” said Root. “Just like this: Machine, mute.”

Shaw waited for a second or two.

“Is she gone?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Great,” said Shaw, reaching for Root's hand. “Because right now, I'd really like to hard code you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be an epilogue.


	10. Epilogue

* * *

“This was a good idea,” Shaw said, moving the last of the tomato plants into the sunniest section of the terrace, where several large planters were now arranged.

The effect was a virtual oasis just outside the sliding doors of their unit. And it meant plenty of fresh herbs and yes, tomatoes would now be available. Shaw wished she'd thought of it sooner but she'd never had much of a green thumb.

Root, on the other hand, seemed to figure it all out in no time. She'd spent the entire morning watering, pruning and staking her plants. Once again, her name suited her talents.

“Well, this space is perfect for a rooftop garden,” Root said with a smile. “I don't think I've ever stayed anywhere long enough to plant anything. At least not that I remember.”

Shaw just nodded, squatting down and digging into one of the planters with her fingers. With all the foliage, it would be the perfect hiding place for her favorite Beretta pocket pistol. Maybe she'd seal the gun in a plastic bag first, so it wouldn't suffer from Root's diligent watering.

Root just watched her, smiling.

“The Machine has another simulation ready for you,” she said. “Don't you want to watch it?”

Shaw stood up and wiped her hands on her jeans.

“Nope. I'm not that interested in the simulations anymore,” she said. “Why would I need them when I've got the real thing?”

She arched an eyebrow at Root, then picked up her glass of iced sweet tea and took a sip.

“Good point,” answered Root, with a tilt of her head. “But don't you want to see my unicorns?”

“Is that what you're calling them these days?” asked Shaw.

“They are spectacular,” Root said with a wink.

“I know,” said Shaw. “I've seen them. In the flesh.”

Just then, Shaw's phone interrupted with a calendar alert and Shaw glanced at the screen.

“Damn, I didn't notice the time,” she said. “It's past noon and I have to make sure the condo is vacated today.”

“That writer moved out?” Root asked. “What was his name again?”

“Spinner,” said Shaw. “You never met him. He told me he'd be leaving today. I'd better get over there.”

She slipped a hand around Root's waist and pulled her in for a soft kiss and a nuzzle on the neck before leaving, then headed over to the condo. Spinner was wiping down the countertop in the kitchen.

“Leave that. I have some cleaners coming in,” Shaw told him.

“I don't like leaving a mess,” he explained, rinsing the cloth in the sink, then giving it a wring and hanging it over the faucet. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate your letting me live here.”

“Where are you off to now?” she asked. “Did you find another job?”

“I'm going home,” he said. “My mother's sick.”

“Where's home?” Shaw asked, realizing she really knew nothing about the young man.

“Montreal,” he said, noting Shaw's impassive expression. She didn't say she was sorry about his mother being sick.

“My stepfather might have some work for me,” Spinner added, waiting for Shaw to react. She didn't.

“So...” Spinner said. “OK. Well, I guess I'll be off now.”

Shaw watched him pick up his duffel bags and head towards the door.

“Oh, I almost forget,” he said, stopping. “I found something cool at the record shop down the street.”

He disappeared into the other room, then returned holding an old vinyl album.

“You mentioned that Root was into this stuff,” he said, handing her the record. “My grandfather used to have quite a collection and this was one of his favorites. I was lucky to find a copy. Anyway, I hope she likes it.”

Shaw peered at the worn cover of the album, which featured a group of musicians in silhouette on a glowing red background.

“Thanks,” said Shaw. “I think.”

When she got back to the safe house, she placed the record on the turntable and carefully lowered the needle until it settled into the groove. There was a slight crackle before the soft horn intro, followed by an acoustic guitar riff. Then the bass drum kicked in and the sound of Latin jazz filled the room.

“What's this?” Root asked, appearing from the kitchen.

“Just an old album,” Shaw explained. “Spinner thought you might like it.”

“Sounds like a warm summer evening on the terrace,” said Root.

“I think it sounds more like the ophthalmologist's waiting room,” said Shaw. “But whatever floats your boat. He got it for you.”

She left Root in the living room with the album and went into the kitchen for a plastic freezer bag. Better take care of that weapon-hiding task right away, Shaw told herself, before she forgot about it.

Retrieving her pocket pistol from its hiding place in the guest room, Shaw turned to survey the small bedroom. She wasn't using the bed anymore, since she slept with Root in her room now. Wait, her room? Their room? She couldn't help smiling at the thought. Yeah, it was theirs now, everything was theirs. Even that crazy music.

She walked back into the living room to see Root swaying her hips to the music, holding her hands out toward Shaw. She had to admit, the music was enticing and so was Root, smiling and dancing like that. Shaw went to her, slipped a hand around her back, and soon they were moving together.

“I knew you could salsa,” Root said, her forehead touching Shaw's. “You do everything with such natural grace.”

Shaw just smiled and let her hand slide down a bit, enjoying the gentle curves of Root's slender, lithe body as it moved with hers. Root was right, she told herself. This dancing thing was nice. They should do it every day. Every damn day.

“Mute,” commanded Shaw, waiting for a second before looking up at Root. “Did it work? Is she gone?”

“It only works when I do it,” Root laughed. “It's voice activated through me. Security reasons.”

“Right,” said Shaw, as the music began to soften and die down, and she could feel Root's head resting on her shoulder and Root's arms around her neck.

Shaw turned her head until her mouth was just at Root's left ear and then she whispered something to her, very softly, and then Root smiled and spoke out loud.

“OK, Machine,” she said. “Mute.”

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this months ago. I realize that some parts of it may seem related to current events but this was not my original intention. I hope those who read this story will find it uplifting, inspiring and fun. Maybe even sexy. (Of course it will be sexy, it's Root and Shaw.) At least it will give you something to read while you are stuck at home.


End file.
